
Class 

Book, ■ ^ ■ I' 




(/kM /h7iryfM4u 



SELECTIOXS 



THE POETICAL W'ORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BROWXIXG. 



FROM THE SIXTH LOXDON EDITION, 
{.FIRST AXD SECOXD SERIES.^ 



*' 



4^!Hil^ 




NEW YORK: 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 

No. 13 AsTOK Place. 



DEDICATED TO 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

IN POETRY — ILLUSTRIOUS AND CONSUMMATE; 
IN FRIENDSHIP — NOBLE AND SINCERE. 



"TN" the present selection from my poetry, tliere is an attempt to escape 
from the embarrassment of appearing to pronounce upon what myself 
may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle, and by simply 
stringing together certain pieces on the thread of an imaginary personal- 
ity, I present them in succession, rather as the natural development of a 
particular experience than because I account them the most noteworthy 
portion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the V3tume of selec- 
tions from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning; to which — in 
outward uniformity at least — my own would venture to become a 
companion. 

A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented itself, I might 
liave been tempted to say a word in reply to the objections n.j poetry was 
used to encounter. Time has kindly co-operated with my disinclination 
to write the poetry and the criticism besides. The readers I am at last 
privileged to expect, meet me fully half-way; and if, from the fitting 
stand-point, they must still "censure me in their wisdom," they have 
previously "awakened their senses that they may the better judge." 
Mor do I apprehend any more charges of being wilfully obscure, uncon- 
scientiously careless, or perversely harsh. Having hitherto done my 
utmost in the art to which my life is a devotion, I cannot engage to 
increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be helpful light, as well 
as re-assuring warmth, in the attention and sympathy I gratefully 

acknowledge. 

R. B. 

London, May 14, 1872. 



COXTEXTS. 



Sct Stab 

VA Face 

Mr Last Duchess .... 

SoxG FROX ••PipPA Passes 

Cbistixa 

CorxT GisxoxD 

^^Stbtdicb to OaPHEUS . . 

The Glovk 

BOXG 



26 



A Serexaj)E at the Villa .... 

Youth axd Art 

The Flight of the Duchess . . . 
^fioNG FBOJC •• Pippa Passes" . . . . 

** How THEY brought THE GoOD 

Xews frox Ghent to Aix" . , 
8oxG FROX " Paracelsus " .... 
Through thb Metidja to Abd-el- 

Kadr 

iKCfDKXT or THE FrEXCH CaMP . . 

The Lost Leader . . .- 

ix a goxdola 

A Lovers' Quarrel 

Earth's Imxortalities 

The Last Ride togetuep. . . . . 

Mesxerisx 

Bt the Fireside 

Ax r Wife to AX-r Husband. . . . 

Is A Year 

SoxG FROX "Jaxes Lee" 

A "WoXAX's Last "SVord 

Meetixg at Xight 

Parting AT Morning 

WoxEX AXD Roses 

MiSCOXCEPTIOXS 

A Pretty Woxak 

A Light Woxax 

Lote IX A Life 

Life ix a Love 



PA6B 

The Labip^tobt 49 

Gold Haib 50 

The Statue axd the Bust .... 53 

Lovi: axoxg the Rurxs 57 

Tixe's Re\-exges 58 

Waring 59 

HoxE Thoughts, frox Abroad . . 62 

The Italian in Exglaxd 62 

The Englishxax rx Italt .... 54 

Up at a Villa — Dowx rx the Citt, 67 

PiCTOR Ignotus 68 

Fea Llppo LiPPi 70 

Vaxdrea del Sabto 76 

The Bishop orders his Toxb at 

Salxt Praxed's Church .... 80 

A Toccata of Galuppi's 82 

How it strikes a Coxtexporaby . 84 

Protus , 86 

Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha . . 87 

-Vet Vogler 89 

Two i>- the Caxpagxa 92 

"De Gu.stibus — " 92 

The Guardiax-Axgel 93 

EvELTX Hope 94 

Mexobaeilia 95 

Apparent Failure 95 

^'nospicE 96 

*** Childe Rolaxd to the Dark Tower 



CAXE " 

A Gp.axxabiax's Fuxeral 

Cleox 

Ixstaxs Ttraxxus . . . 

Ax Epistle 

Callbak upox Setebos . . 

^AUL 

Niabbi Bex Ezra • . 

Epilogub . . 
i A Wall . . . 



97 
101 
103 
108 
109 
lU 
119 
126 
129 
131 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 




PAGE 


\APPATiITIONS 


131 


Dis Aliter Visum 


. . 179 


Natural Magic 


132 


Confessions 


. . 181 


Magical Nature 


132 


The Householder 


. . 182 




132 
133 


Tray 


. . 183 


Garden Fancies, II 


Cavalier Tunes, T 


. . 183 


In Three Days 


134 


Cavalier Tunes, TT 


. . 184 


The Lost Mistress 


135 


Cavalier Tunls. JJl 


. . 184 


One Wat of Love 


135 
135 


Before . 


. . 185 


Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli . 


After 


. . 185 


NUMPHOLEPTOS . , 


.136 
139^ 




186 


Appearances 


*iN a Balcony 


. . 188 


The Worst of It 


139 


Old Pictures in Florence . . 


. . 205 


Too Late 


141 


Bishop Blougram's Apology . 


. . 210 


Bifurcation 


144 


Mr. Sludge, " The Medium " . 


. . 228 


A Likeness 


144 


The Boy AND the Angel. . . 


. . 256 


May and Death 


145 


A Death in the Desert . . . 


. . 257 


XA. Forgiveness 


14fi 


Fears and Scruples .... 


. . 268 


Cenciaja 


152 


Artemis Prologizes 


. . 269 


PoRPHYRiA's Lover 


157 


Pheidippides 


. . 271 


FiLippo Baldinucci on the PRm 


158 
164 




. . 274 


lege of Burial 




. . 274 


Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 


Pisgah-Sights. 1 


. . 275 


The Heretic's Tragedy .... 


165 


Pisgah-Sights. 2 


. . 276 


Holy-Cross Day 


167 


Pisgah-Sights. 3 


. . 276 


Amphibian 


169 


At the "Mehmaid" 


. . 277 


St. Martin's Summer 


171 
172 




. . 278 


James Lee's Wife 


Shop 


. . 279 


Respectabllity 


178 


A Tale 


. . 281 



SELECTIONS FEOM EOBEET BEOWNKG. 



MY STAR. 

All that I know 

Of a certain star 
Is, it can throw 

(Like the angled spar) 
Kow a dart of red, 

Now a dart of blue ; 
Till my friends have said 

They would fain see, too, 
Mv star that dartles the red and the 

blue ! 
Then it stops like a bird ; like a 
flower, hangs furled : 
They must solace themselves with 
the Saturn above it. 
What matter to me if their star is a 
world V 
Mine has opened its soul to me ; 
therefore I love it. 



Then her lithe neck, three fingers 

might surround. 
How it should waver, on the pale gold 

ground, 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it 

lifts ! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in 

rifts 
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades 
absorb: 
! But these are only massed there, I 
I should think, 

j Waiting to see some wonder momently 
I Grow out, stand full, fade slow against 
I the sky 

i (That's the pale ground you'd see this 
sweet face by). 
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed 

into one eye 
Which fears to lose the wonder, 
should it wink. 



A FACE. 

If one could have that little head of 

Jiers 
Painted upon a background of pale 

gold. 
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers ! 
Ko shade encroaching on the match- 
less mould 
Of those two lips, which should be 

opening soft 
In the pure profile ; not as when she 

laughs. 
For that spoils all : but rather as if 

aloft 
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its 

staff's 
Burthen of honey-colored buds, to 

kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for 

this. 



MY LAST DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

That's my last Duchess painted on 

the wall. 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pau- 

dolf's hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she 

stands. 
Will't please you sit and look at her ? 

I said 
"Fra Pandolf" by design : for never 

read 
Strangers like you that pictured coun- 

teuajice. 
The dei>tli and passion of its earnest 

glance, 

I 



SONG FROM ''P/PPA PASSES. 



But to myself they turned (since none 

puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, 

but I), 
And seemed as they would ask me, if 

they durst. 
How such a glance came there ; so, 

not the hrst 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 

'twas not 
Her husband's presence onh'-, called 

that sjwt 
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : per- 
haps 
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, " Her 

mantle laps 
Over mv lady's wrist too much," or 

" Paint 
Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
Half-flush that dies along her throat ; " 

such stuff 
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause 

enough 
For calling up that spot of joy. She 

had 
A heart — how shall I say? — too 

soon made glad, 
Too easily impressed : she liked what- 

e'er 
She looked on, and her looks went 

everywhere. 
Sir, 'twas all one ! My favor at her 

breast, 
The dropping of the daylight in the 

^Vest, 
The bough of cherries some officious 

lool 
Broke in the orchard for her, the 

white mule 
She rode with round the terrace, — all 

and each 
Would draw from her alike the ap- 
proving speech, 
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, 

— good ! but thanked 
Somehow — I know not how — as if 

she ranked 
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old 

name 
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to 

blame 
This sort of trifling? Even had you 

skill 
In speech — (which I have not) — to 

make your will 
Quite clear to such an one, and say, 

" Just this 
Or that in you disgusts me ; here you 

miss. 



Or there exceed the mark" — and 

if she let 
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly 

set 
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made 

excuse, 
— E'en then would be some stooping ; 

and I choose 
Never to stoop. O sir! she smiled, 

no doubt. 
Whene'er I passed her ; but who 

passed without 
Mu(;h the same smile ? This grew ; I 

gave commands ; 
Then all smiles stopped together. 

There she stands 
As if alive. Will't please you rise? 

We'll meet 
The company below, then. I repeat, 
The Count" your master's known 

munificence 
Is ample warrant that no just pre- 
tence 
Of mine for dowry will be disal- 
lowed ; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I 

avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll 

go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, 

though. 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
Which C'laus of Innsbruck cast in 

bronze for me! 



SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES. 



Give her but a least excuse to love 
me! 
When — where — 
How — can this arm establish her 
above me, 
If fortune fixed her as my lady 
there. 
There already, to eternally reprove 
me? 
(" Hist ! " vsaid Kate the queen; 
But " Oh," cried the maiden, biuding 
her tresses, 
" 'Tis only a page that carols un- 
seen. 
Crumbling your hounds their 
messes! ") 



CRIST IN A. 



Is she wronged? — To the rescue of 
her lioaor, 
My heart ! 
Is she poor? — What costs it to be- 
come a donor ? 
Merely au earth to cleave, a sea to 
part. 
But that fortune should have thrust 
all this upon her ! 
(" Nay, list ! " hade Kate the queen; 
And still cried the maiden, binding 
her tresses, 
" 'Tis only a page that carols un- 
seen, 
Fitting your hawks their jesses! ") 



CRISTIXA. 



She should never have looked at me 

if she meant I should not love 

her! 
There are plenty . . . men, you call 

such, I suppose . . . she may 

discover 
All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet 

leave much as she found them : 
But I'm not so; and she knew it when 

she fixed me, glancing round 

them. 

ir. 
TVliat ? To fix me thus meant noth- 
ing? But I can't tell (there's 

my weakness) 
What her look said ! — no vile cant, 

sure, about " need to strew the 

bleakness 
Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, 

that t he sea feels " — no " strange 

yearning 
That such souls have, most to lavish 

where there's chance of least 

returning." 

in. 

Oh ! we're sunk enough here, God 
knows I but not quite so sunk 
that moments. 

Sure though seldom, are denied us, 
when the spirit's true endow- 
ments 

Stand out plainly from its fal.se ones, 
and apprise it if pursuing 

Or the right way or the wrong way, 
to its triumph or undoing. 



There are flashes struck from mid- 
nights, tliere are tire-ilames 
noondays kindle, 

"Whereby piled-up honors perish, 
whereby swollen ambitious 
dwindle; 

"While just this or that poor impulse, 
which for once had plav unsti- 
lled, 

Seems the sole work of a lifetime 
that awav the rest have tritled. 



Doubt you if, in some such moment, 

as she fixed me, she felt clearly. 
Ages past the soul existed, here au 

age 'tis resting merely, 
And hence fleets again forages; while 

the ti'ue end, sole and single. 
It stops here for is, this love way, 

with some other soul to mingle ? 



Else it loses what it lived for, and 

eternally umst lose it; 
Better ends may be in prosj^ect, 

deeper blisses (if you clioose it). 
But this life's end and this love-bliss 

have been lost here. Doubt you 

whether 
This she felt as, looking at me, mine 

and her souls rushed together ? 



Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, 
the world's honors, in derision. 

Trampled out the light forever. 
Never fear but there's provision 

Of the Devil's to quench knowledge, 
lest we walk the earth in rai> 
ture! 

— Making those who catch God's se- 
cret, just so much more prize 
their capture! 



Such am I: the secret's mine now! 

She has lost me, I have gained 

her; 
Her soul's mine: and thus, grown 

perfect. I shall pass my life's 

remainder. 
Life will just hold out the proving both 

our powers, alone and blended; 
And then, come next life quickly! 

This world's use will have 

been ended. 



COUNT GISMOND. 



COUNT GISMOXD. 

AIX IN PROVEXCE. 

I. 

Christ God who savest mau, save 

most 
Of men Count Gismond who saved 

me! 
Count Gauthier, when he chose his 

l)()St, 

Chose time and place and company 
To suit it: when lie struck at length 
]VIy honor, 'twas with all his strength. 



II. 

And doubtlessly, ere he could draw 
All points to one, he must have 
schemed! 

That miserable morning saw 
Few half so happy as I seemed, 

"While being dressed in queen's array 

To give our tourney ^n-ize away. 



III. 

I thought they loved me, did me grace 

To please themselves: 'twas all 

their deed. 

God makes, or fair or foul, our face: 

If showing mine so caused to bleed 

My cousins' hearts, they should have 

dropped 
A word, and straight the play had 
stopped. 

IV. 

They, too, so beauteous! Each a 
queen 

Bj^ virtue of her brow and breast; 
Not needing to be crowned, I mean, 

As I do. E'en when I was dressed, 
Had either of them spoke, instead 
Of glancing sideways with still head! 

V. 

But no: they let me laugh, and sing 
My birthday song quite through, 
adjust 

The last rose in my garland, fling 
A last look on the mirror, trust 

My arms to each an arm of theirs, 

And so descend the castle-stairs — 



And come out on the morning troop 
Of merry friends who kissed my 
cheek, 



And called me queen, and made me 

stoop 
Under the canopy — (a streak 
That pierced it, of the outside sun. 
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft 

dun) — 

VII. 

And they could let me take ray state 
And foolish throne amid applause 

Of all come there to celebrate 
M3' queen's-day — Oh, I think the 
cause 

Of much was, they forgot no crowd 

Makes up for parents in their shroud! 



VIII. 

However that be, all eyes were bent 

Upon me, when my cousins cast 
Theirs down; 'twas time I should 
present 
The victor's crown, but . . . there, 
'twill last 
No long time . . . the old mist again 
Blinds me as then it did. How vain! 



See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk 

With his two boys: I can proceed. 
Well, at that moment, who should 
stalk 
Forth boldly — to my face, indeed — 
But Gauthier? and he thundered 

" Stay! " 
And all staid. *' Bring no crowns, I 
say! 



" Bring torches! Wind the penance- 
sheet 

About her! Let her shun the chaste, 
Or laj^ herself before their feet! 

Shall she, whose body I embraced 
A night long, queen it in the day ? 
For honor's sake no crowns, I say! " 

XI. 

I ? What I answered ? As I live, 

I never fancied such a thing 
As answer possible to give. 
What says the body when they 
spring 
Some monstrous torture-engine's 

whole 
Strength on it? No more says the 
soul. 



EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. 



XII. 

Till ont strode Gismond: then I knew 
That [ was saved. I n(n-er met 

Hii^ face hefore; but, at tirst view, 
I felt quite sure that God had set 

Himself to Satan: who would sjiend 

A minute's mistrust on the end ? 

XIII. 

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat 
Gave him the lie, then struck his 
mouth 

"With one back-handed blow that 
wrote 
In blood men's verdict then. North, 
South, 

East, AVest, I looked. The lie was 
dead 

And damned, and truth stood up in- 
stead. 

XIV. 

This glads me most, that I enjoyed 
The heart o' the joy, with my con- 
tent 

In watching Gismond unalloyed 
By any doubt of the event; 

God took that on him — I was bid 

Watch Gismond for my part: I did. 

XV. 

Did I not watch him while he let 
His armorer just brace his greaves, 

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret 

The while! His foot . . . my mem- 
orj^ leaves 

No least stamp out, nor how anon 

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 



And e'en before the trumpet's sound 
Was finished, prone lay the false 
knight, 
Prone as his lie, upon the ground: 
Gismond flew at him, used no 
sleight 
O' the sword, but open-breasted 

drove. 
Cleaving till out the truth he clove. 

XVII. 

Which done, he dragged him to mv 
feet. 
And said, "Here die, but end thy 
breath 
In full confession, lest thou fleet 
From my first to God's second 
death ! 



Say, hast thou lied ? " And, " I have 

lied 
To God and her," he said, and died. 

XVIII. 

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked 
— What safe my heart holds, though 
no word 

Could I repeat now, if I tasked 
M}^ powers forever, to a third. 

Dear even as you are. Pass the rest 

Until I sank upon his breast. 



Over my head his arm he flung 
Against the world; and scarce I 
felt 
His sword (that drijiped by me and 
swung) 
A little shifted in its belt, 
For he began to say the while 
How South our home lay many a 
mile. 

XX. 

So 'mid the shouting multitude 

We two walked forth to never more 
Return. My cousins have ])nrsued 

Their life, untroubled as before 
I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling- 
place 
God lighten! May his soul find 
grace ! 

XXI. 

Our elder \>o\ has got the clear 
Great brovi'; though when his broth- 
er's black 
Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond 
here ? 
And have vou brought my tercel 
back ? 
I was just telling A.dela 
How many birds it struck since May. 



EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. 

A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGH- 
TOX, R.A. 

Brx give them me. the mouth, the 

eyes, the brow ! 
Let them once more absorb me ! One 

look now 



^Vill lap me round forever, not to 

pass 
Out of its lij?ht, though darkness lie 

beyond : 
Hold me but safe again within the 

bond 
Of one immortal look ! All woe 

that was, 
Forgotten, and all terror that may 

be, 
Defied, —no past is mine, no future: 

look at me ! 



THE GLOVE. 

(PETER RONSARD loquitur.) 

"Heigho." yawned one day King 

Francis, 
" Distance all value enhances ! 
When a man's bus3% "^^'liy. leisure 
Strikes him as wonderful [tleasure: 
'Faith, and at leisure once is he ? 
Straightway he wants to be busy. 
Here we've got peace; and aghast 

Fm 
Caught thinking war the true pas- 
time. 
Is there a reason in metre ? 
Give us your speech, master Peter ! " 
I who, if mortal dare say so, 
Ne'er am at loss with m\^ Naso, 
'• Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloud- 
lets: 
Men are the merest Ixions " — 
Here the King whistled aloud, " Let's 
. . . Heigho ... go look at our 

lions ! " 
Such are the sorrowful chances 
H you talk fine to King Francis. 

And so, to the court-yard proceeding. 
Our company, Francis was leading. 
Increased by new followers tenfold 
Before he arrived at the penfold; 
Lords, ladies, like clouds which be- 
dizen 
At sunset the western horizon. 
And Sir de Lorge pressed 'mid the 

foremost 
With the dame he professed to adore 

most — 
Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed 
Her, and the horrible pitside; 



For the penfold surrounded a hollow 

Which led where the eye scarce dared 
follow. 

And shelved to the chamber secluded 

Where Bluebeard, the great lion, 
brooded. 

The king hailed his keeper, an Arab 

As glossy and black as a scarab. 

And bade him make sport, and at 
once stir 

Up and out of his den the old mon- 
ster. 

They opened a hole in the wire- 
work 

Across it, and dropj)ed there a fire- 
work, 

And fled: one's heart's beating re- 
doubled; 

A pause, while the pit's mouth was 
troubled, 

The blackness and silence so utter. 

By the firework's slow sparkling and 
sputter; 

Then earth in a sudden contortion 

Gave out to our gaze her abortion. 

Such a brute ! Were I friend Clem- 
ent Marot 

(Whose experience of nature's but 
narrow. 

And whose faculties move in no small 
mist 

When he versifies David the Psalm- 
ist) 

I should study that brute to describe 
you 

Ilium Juda Leonem de Trihu. 

One's whole blood grew curdling and 
creepy 

To see the black mane, vast and 
heapy, 

The tail in the air stiff and straining. 

The wide eyes, nor waxing nor wan- 
ing. 

As over the barrier which bounded 

Plis platform, and us who surrounded 

The barrier, they reached and they 
rested 

On space that might stand him in best 
stead ; 

For who knew, he thought, what the 
amazement. 

The eruption of clatter and blaze 
meant, 

And if, in this minute of wonder. 

No outlet, 'mid lightning and thun- 
der, 

Lay broad, and, his shackles all shiv- 
ered. 

The lion at last was delivered ? 



THE GLOVE. 



Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! 
And you saw by the flash on his fore- 
head, 
By the hope in those eyes wide and 

steady, 
He was leac^nes in the desert already, 
Drivinsj the flocks up the mountain, 
Or catlike couched hard by the foun- 
tain 
To waylay the date-<?atheringnegress: 
So guarded he entrance or egress. 
"How he stands! " quoth the king: 
" we may well swear 
(No novice, we've won our spurs else- 
where, 
And so can afford the confession), 
AVe exercise wholesome discretion 
In keeping aloof from his threshold; 
Once hold you, those jaws want no 

fresh hold. 
Their lii-st would too pleasantly pur- 
loin 
The visitor's brisket or sirloin: 
But who's he would prove so fool- 
hardy ? 
Not the best man of Marignan, par- 
die! " 

The sentence no sooner was uttered. 
Than over the rails a glove fluttered. 
Fell close to the lion, and rested: 
The dame 'twas, who flung it and 

jested 
With life so, De Lorge had been 

wooing 
For months past; he sat there pursu- 
ing 
His suit, weighing out with noncha- 
lance 
Fine speeches like gold from a bal- 
ance. 

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's 

a tarrier! 
De Lorge made one leap at the bar- 
rier. 
Walked straight to the glove, — while 

the lion 
Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching 

eye on 
The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's 

sapphire. 
And the musky oiled skin of the Kaf- 

flr.— 
Picked it up. and as calmly retreated. 
Leaped ba(^k where the' lady was 

seated, 
And full in the face of its owner 
Flung the glove. 



" Your heart's queen, 

you dethrone her ? 
So should I!" — cried the King — 

" 'twas mere vanity. 
Not love, set that task to humanity! " 
Lords and ladies alike turned with 

loathing 
From such a proved wolf in sheep's 

clothing. 

Not so, I; for I caught an expression 
In her brow's undisturbed self-posses- 
sion 
Amid the Court's scoffing and merri- 
ment, — 
As if from no pleasing experiment 
She rose, yet of pain not much heed- 
ful 
So long as the process was needful,— 
As if she had tried, in a crucible. 
To what " speeches like gold " were 

reducible, 
And, finding the finest prove copper. 
Felt smoke in her face was but proper; 
To know what she had vot to trust 

to, 
AYas worth all the ashes and dust 

too. 
She went out 'mid hooting and laugh- 
ter; 
Clement Marot staid; I followed 

after. 
And asked, as a grace, what it all 

meant ? 
If she wished not the rash deed's re- 

calment ? 
" For I " — so I spoke — " am a poet: 
Human nature, — behooves that I 
know ii! " 

She told me, " Too long had I heard 
Of the deed j)roved alone by the 

word : 
For my love — what De Lorge would 

not dare! 
With my scorn — what De Lorge could 

compare! 
And the endless descriptions of death 
He would brave when my lip formed 

a breath, 
I must reckon as braved, or, of course, 
Doubt his word — and moreover, jK'r- 

force. 
For such gifts as no lady could spurn, 
Must offer my love in return. 
When I looked onyour lion, it brought 
All the dangers at once to my thought, 
Encountered by all sorts of men, 
Before he was lodged in his den, — 



From The poor slave whose club or 
bare bauds 

Dug the trap, set the snare ou the 
sands, 

With no King and no Court to aj)- 
plaud, 

By no shame, should he shrink, over- 
awed, 

Yet to capture the creature made 
shift, 

That his rude boys might laugh at 
the gift, 

— To the page who last leaped o'er 

the fence 
Of the pit, on no greater pretence 
Than to get back the bonnet he 

dropped, 
Lest his pay for a week should be 

stopped. 
So, wiser I judged it to make 
One trial what " death for my sake ' 
Really meant, while the power was 

yet mine. 
Than to wait until time should de- 
fine 
Such a phrase not so simply as I, 
"Who took it to mean just ' to die.' 
The blow a glove gives is but weak: 
Does the mark yet discolor my cheek ? 
But, when the heart suffers a blow, 
Will the pain pass so soon, do you 
know? " 

I looked, as away she was sweeping, 
And saw a youth eagerly keeping 
As close as he dared to the doorway. 
No doubt that a noble should more 

weigh 
His life than befits a plebeian; 
And yet, had our brute been Ne- 

mean — 
(I judge by a certain calm fervor 
The youtli stepped with, forward to 
"serve her) 

— He'd have scarce thought you did 

him the worst turn 
If you whispered, " Friend, what you'd 

get, first earn! " 
And when, shortly after, she carried 
Her shame from the Court, and they 

married. 
To that marriage some happiness, 

maugre 
The voice of the Court, I dared augur. 

For De Lorge, be made women with 

men vie, 
Those in wonder and praise, these in 

envy: 



And, in short, stood so plain a head 

taller 
That he wooed and won . . . how do 

you call her? 
The beauty, that rose in the sequel 
To the King's love, who loved her a 

week well. 
And 'twas noticed he never would 

honor 
De Lorge (who looked daggers upon 

her) 
With the easy commission of stretch- 
ing 
His legs in the service, and fetching 
His wife, from her chamber, those 

straying 
Sad gloves she was always mislaying, 
While the King took the closet to chat 

in, — 
But of course this adventure came 

pat in. 
And never the King told the story, 
How bringing a glove brought such 

glory. 
But the wife smiled — "His nerves 

are grown firmer : 
Mine he brings now and utters no 

murmur." 

Venienti occinrife nwrbo! 

With which moral I drop my theorbo. 



SONG. 



Nay but you, who do not love her, 

Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 
Holds earth aught — speak truth — 
above her ? 
Aught like this tress, see, and this 
tress, 
And this last fairest tress of all. 
So fair, see, ere I let it fall ? 



Because, yon spend your lives in 
praising ; 
To praise, you search the wide world 
over ; 
Then why not witness, calmly gazing. 
If earth holds aught — speak truth 
— above her ? 
Above this tress, and this, I touch 
But cannot praise, I love so much ! 



YOUTfl A\D ART. 



A SERENADE AT 
VILLA. 



THE 



That was I, you heard last night, 
When there rose no moon at all. 

Nor, to i)ierce the strained and tight 
Tent of heaven, a planet small : 

Life was dead, and so was light. 



Not a twinkle from the fly. 
Not a glimmer from the worm. 

"When the crickets stopped their cry, 
AVhen the owls forbore a term, 

You heard music : that was I. 



Earth turned in her sleep with pain. 
Sultrily suspired for proof : 

In at hfaven and out again, 
Lightning! — where it broke the 
roof. 

Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. 



IV. 

What they could my words expressed, 
O my love, my all, my one ! 

Singing helped the verses best ; 
And, when singing's best was done. 

To my lute I left the rest. 



So wore night ; the east was gray, 
Whire the broad-faced hemlock- 
flowers ; 

There would be another day ; 
Ere irs first of heavy liouVs 

Found me, I had passed away. 



What became of all the hopes, 

Words and song and lute as well ? 
Say, this struck you — '* AVhen life 
gropes 
Feebly for the path where fell- 
Light last on the evening slopes, 



" One friend in that path shall be. 
To secure my step from wrong ; 

One to count night day for me. 
Patient through the watches long. 

Serving most with none to see." 



viir. 
Never say — as something bodes — 

" So, the worst has j-et a worse ! 
When life halts 'neath double loads, 

Better the task-master's curse 
Than such music on the roads ! 

IX. 

" When no moon succeeds the sun, 
Nor can pierce the midnight's tent, 

Any star, the smallest one. 
While some drops, where lightning 
rent, 

Show the final storm begun — 



" When the fire-fly hides its spot, 
When the garden-voices fail 

In the darkness thick and hot, — 
Shall another voice avail. 

That shape be where these are not ? 



"Has some plague a longer lease, 
Proffering its help uncouth ? 

Can't one even die in peace ? 
As one shuts one's eyes on youth, 

Is that face the last one sees ? " 



Oh. how dark your villa was, 
Windows fast and obdurate ! 

How the garden grudged me grass 
Where I stood — the iron gate 

Ground its teeth to let me pass ! 



YOUTH AND ART. 



It once might have been, once only : 
We lodgeil in a street together. 

You, a sparrow on the housetop 
lonely. 
I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 



Your trade was with sticks and clay. 
You tliunibed, thrust, i)atted, and 
polished. 
Then laughed, " They will see, some 
day. 
Smith' made, and Gibson demol- 
ished." 



10 



YOUTH AND ART. 



III. 

My business was song, song, song : 
I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and 
twittered, 
" Kate Brown's on the boards ere 
long, 
And Grisi's existence embittered ! " 



I earned no more by a warble 
Than you by a sketch in plaster : 

You wanted a piece of marble, 
I needed a music-master. 



"We stiadied hard in our styles, 
Chipped each at a crust like Hin- 
doos, 
For air, looked out on the tiles. 
For fun, watched each other's win- 
dows. 



You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard 
too ; 

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
With lingers the clay adhered to. 



And I — soon managed to find 
Weak points in the tlower-feuce fa- 
cing, 

Was forced to put up a blind 
And be "safe in my corset-lacing. 



VIII. 

No harm ! It was not my fault 
If you never turned your eye's tail 
'up 

As I shook upon E in alt., 
Or ran the chromatic scale up ; 



For spring bade the sparrows pair. 
And the boys and girls gave guesses, 

And stalls in our street looked rare 
With bulrush and watercresses. 



Why did not you pinch a flower 
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 



Why did not I put a power 
Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 



I did look, sharp as a lynx 

(And yet the memory rankles), 

When models arrived,"some minx 
Tripped up stairs, she and her 
ankles. 



But T think I gave you as good ! 

"That foreign fellow, — who c 
know 
How she pays, in a playful mood, 

For his tuning her that piano ? " 



xiri. 
Could you say so, and never say, 
" Suppose we join hands and for- 
tunes. 
And I fetch her from over the way, 
Her, piano, and long times and short 
tunes?" 

XIV. 

No, no ; you would not be rash, 
Nor I rasher and something over : 

You've to settle yet Gibson's hash. 
And Grisi yet lives in clover. 



XV 



But 



you meet the Prince at the 
'Board, 

I'm queen myself at bals-pare, 
I've married a rich old lord. 
And you're dubbed knight and an 
R.A. 



XVI. 

Each life's unfulfilled, you see; 

It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: 
We have not sighed deep, laughed 
. free, 
Starved, feasted, despaired, — been 
happy. 

XVII. 

And nobody calls you a dunce, ; 

And people suppose me clever: ; 
This could but have happened once, 

And we missed it, lost it forever. - 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



11 



THE FLIGHT OF THE 
DUCHESS. 



You're my friend: 

I was the inun the Duke spoke to; 

I helped the Duchess to cast off his 

yoke, too: 
So, here's the tale from beginning to 

end. 
My friend ! 



Ours is a great wild country: 

If you climb to our castle's toi>, 

I (ion't see where your eye can stop; 

For when you've passed the corn-liekl 

country, 
Where vineyards leave off, flocks are 

packed, 
And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, 
And cattle-tract to open-chase, 
And open-chase to the very base 
O' the mountain where, at a funeral 

pace. 
Round about, solemn and slow, 
One by one, row after row, 
Up and up the pine-trees go. 
So, like black priests up, and so 
Down the other side again 
To another greater, wilder country. 
That's one vast red drear burnt-up 

plain, 
Branched through and through with 

many a vein 
Whence iron's dug, and copper's 

dealt; 
Look right, look left, look straight 

before, — 
Beneath they mine, above they smelt, 
Cojiper-ore and iron-ore, 
And forge and furnace mould and 

melt. 
And so on, more and ever more. 
Till at the last, for a bounding belt, 
Comes the salt sand hoar of the great 

seashore, 
— And the whole is our Duke's coun- 
try. 

III. 

I was born the day this present Duke 

was — 
(And O, says the song, ere I was old !) 
In the castle where the other Duke 

was — 
(When I was happy and young, not 

old !) 



I in the kennel, he in the bower: 
We are of like age to an hour: 
My father was huntsman in that day: 
Who has not heard my father say. 
That, when a boar was brought to 

bay. 
Three tiines, four times out of five, 
With his huntspear he'd contrive 
To get the killing-place transfixed. 
And pin him true, both ej-es betwixt ? 
And that's why the old Duke wuuld 

rather 
He lost a salt-pit than my father. 
And loved to have him ever in call; 
That's why my father stood in the 

hall 
When the old Duke brought his in- 
fant out 
To show the peoi)le, and while they 

passed 
The wondrous bantling round about, 
Was first to start at the outside blast 
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, 
Just a month after the babe was born. 
"And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, 

" since 
The Duke has got an heir, our Prince 
Needs the Duke's self at his side: " 
The Duke looked down and seemed 

to wince. 
But he thought of wars o'er the world 

wide. 
Castles a-fire, men on their march, 
The toppli ng tower, the crashi ng an^h ; 
And up he looked, and a while he 

eyed 
The row of crests and shields and 

banners 
Of all achievements after all manners, 
And "Ay,"' said the Duke with a 

surly pride. 
The more was his comfort when he 

died 
At next year's end, in a velvet suit, 
With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot 
In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 
Petticoated like a herald. 
In a chamber next to an ante-room, 
Where he breathed the breath of page 

and groom, 
What h(! called stink, and they, per- 
fume: 
— They should have set him on red 

Berold 
Mad with juide, like fire to manao:*' ! 
They should have got his cheek fresh 

tannage 
Such a day as to-day in the merry 

sunshine ! 



12 



THE FLIGHT OF THE BUG HESS. 



Had they stuck on his fist a rough- 
loot merlin ! 

(Hark, the wind's on the heath at its 
game ! 

Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 

To Hap each broad wing like a ban- 
ner, 

And turn in the wind, and dance like 
flame !) 

Had they broached a cask of white 
beer from Berlin ! 

— Or if you incline to prescribe mere 
wine, 

Put to his lips when they saw him 
pine, 

A cup of our own Moldavia fine, 

Cotnar for instance, green as May 
sorrel 

And ropy with sweet, — we shall not 
quarrel. 

IV. 

So, at home, the sick tall yellow 

Duchess 
Was left with the infant in her 

clutches, 
She being the daughter of God knows 

who: 
And now was the time to revisit her 

tribe. 
Abroad and afar they went, the two, 
And let our people rail and gibe 
At the empty hall and extinguished 

fire, 
As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, 
Till after long years we had our de- 
sire, 
And ba(ik came the Duke and his 

mother again. 



And he came back the pertest little 

ape 
That ever affronted human shape; 
Full of his travel, struck at bimself. 
You'd say, he despised our bluff old 

ways ? 
— Not he! For in Paris they told the 

elf 
That our rough North land was the 

Land of Lays, 
The one good thing left in evil days; 
Since the Mid- Age was the Heroic 

Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 
Could you taste of it yet as in its 

prime, 
And see true castles with proper 

towers. 



Young-hearted women, old-minded 

men. 
And manners now as manners werd 

then. 
So, all that the old Dukes had been, 

without knowing it. 
This Duke would fain know he was, 

without being it; 
'Twas not for the joy's self, but the 

joy of liis showing it. 
Nor for the pride's self, but the pride 

of our seeing it. 
He revived all usages thoroughly 

Avorn-out, 
The souls of them fumed-forth, the 

hearts of them torn-out: 
And chief in the chase his neck he 

perilled. 
On a lathy horse, all legs and length, 
With blood for bone, all speed, no 

strength; 
— Tbev should have set him on red 

Berold 
With the red eye slow consuming in 

fire. 
And the thin stiff ear like an abbey 

spire! 



Well, such as he was, he must marry, 

we heard ; 
And out of a convent, at the word, 
Came the lady, in time of spring. 
— Oh, old thoughts they cling, they 

cling! 
That day, I know, with a dozen 

oatlis 
I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes 
Fit for the chase of urox or buftle 
In winter-time when you need to 

muftle. 
But the Duke had a mind we should 

cut a figure. 
And so we saw the lady arrive: 
My friend, Ihave seen a white crane 

bigger! 
She was the smallest lady alive. 
Made in a piece of nature's madness. 
Too small, almost, for the life and 

gladness 
That over-filled her, as some hive 
Out of the bears' reach on the high 

trees 
Is crowded with its safe merry bees: 
In truth, she was not hard to please! 
Up she looked, down she looked, 

round at the mead. 
Straight at the castle, that's best in- 
deed 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



13 



To look at. from outside the walls: 
As for us, styled the " serfs and 

thralls," 
She as much thanked me as if she had 

said it, 
(With her eyes, do you understand ?) 
Because I patted her horse while I 

led it; 
And Max, who rode on her other 

hand. 
Said, no bird flew past but she in- 
quired 
What its true name was, nor ever 

seemed tired — 
If that was an eagle she saw hover, 
And the green and gray bird on the 

field was the plover, 
When suddenly appeared the Duke: 
And as down she sprung, the small 

foot pointed 
On to my hand, — as with a rebuke, 
And as if his backbone were not 

jointed. 
The Duke stepped rather aside than 

forward, 
And welcomed her with his grandest 

smile ; 
And, mind you, his mother all the 

while 
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to 

nor' ward ; 
And up, like a weary yawn, with its 

pulleys 
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcul- 
lis ; 
And, like a glad sky the north- wind 

sullies, 
The lady's face stopped its play. 
As if her first hair had grown gray; 
For such things must begin some one 

day. 

VII. 

In a day or two she was well again ; 
As who should say, " You labor in 

vain ! 
"This is all a jest against God, who 

meant 
I should ever be, as I am, content 
And glad in his sight; therefore, glad 

I will be." 
So, smiling as at first went she. 



She was active, stirring, all fire — 
Could not rest, could not tire — 
To a stone she might have given life ! 
CI myself loved once, in my day) 



— For a shepherd's, miner's, hunts- 
man's wife, 

(I had a wife, I know what I say) 

Never in all the world such an one! 

And here was plenty to be done. 

And she that could do it, great or 
small, 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his 
post. 

This in his station, and that in his 
office, 

And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, 
at most, 

To meet his eye, with the other tro- 
]>hies. 

Now outside the hall, now in it, 

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be 
seen, 

At the proper place in the proper 
minute. 

And die away the life between. 

And it was amusing enough, each in- 
fraction 

Of rule — (but for after-sadness that 
came) 

To hear the consummate self-satisfac- 
tion 

With which the young Duke and the 
old dame 

Would let her advise, and criticise. 

And, being a fool, instruct the 
wise. 

And, childlike, parcel out praise or 
blame : 

They bore it all in complacent guise. 

As though an artificer, after contriv- 
ing 

A wheel-work image as if it were 
living, 

Should find with delight it could mo- 
tion to strike him ! 

So found the Duke, and his mother 
like him : 

The lady hardly got a rebuff — 

That had not been contemptuous 
enough, 

With his cursed smirk, as he nodded 
applause. 

And kept off the old mother-cat's 
claws. 



So, the little lady grew silent and 
thin. 
Paling and ever paling. 
As the way is with a hid chagrin ; 
And the Duke perceived that she 
was ailing, 



14 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to 

spite lue, 
" But I shall find in my i^ower to 

right me ! " 
Don't swear, friend ! The old one, 

many a year, 
Is in hell; and the Duke's self . . . 

vou shall hear. 



X. 

Well, early in autumn, at first winter- 
warning, 

When the stag had to break with his 
foot, of a morning, 

A drinking-hole out of the fresh ten- 
der ice, 

That covered the pond till the sun, in 
a trice, 

Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold. 

And another and another, and faster 
and faster, 

Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide 
water rolled. 

Then it so chanced that the Duke our 
master 

Asked himself what were the pleas- 
ures in season, 

And found, since the calendar bade 
him be hearty, 

He should do the Middle Age no trea- 
son 

In resolving on a hunting-part^'. 

Always provided, old books showed 
the way of it ! 

What meant old poets by their stric- 
tures ? 

And when old poets had said their 
say of it. 

How taught old painters in their pic- 
tures ? 

We must revert to the proper chan- 
ni^ls, 

Workings in tapestry, paintings on 
panels, 

And gather up woodcraft's authentic 
traditions : 

Here was food for our various ambi- 
tions. 

As on each case, exactlj- stated — 

To encourage your dog, now, the prop- 
erest chirrup. 

Or best prayer to St. Hubert on 
mounting your stirrup — 

We of the household took thought 
and debated. 

Blessed was he whose back ached 
with the jerkin 

His sire was wont to do forest- work in ; 



Blesseder he who nobly sunk " ohs " 
And " ahs " while he tugged on his 

grandsire's trunk-hose ; 
What signified hats if they had no 

rims on. 
Each slouching before and behind like 

the scallop. 
And able to serve at sea for a shallop, 
Loaded with lacquer and looped with 

crimson ? 
So that the deer now, to make a short 

rhyme on't, 
AVhat with our Venerers, Prickers, 

and Verderers, 
Might hope for real hunters at length 

and not murderers. 
And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a 

hot time on't ! 



Now you must know that when the 
first dizziness 

Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack- 
boots subsided. 

The Duke put this question, " The 
Duke's i)art provided. 

Had not the Duchess some share in 
the business? " 

For out of the mouth of two or three 
witnesses 

Did he estalilish all fit-or-un fitnesses; 

And, after nmch laying of heads to- 
gether. 

Somebody's cap got a notable feather 

By the announcement with proper 
unction 

That he had discovered the lady's 
function; 

Since ancient authors gave this tenet, 

" AVhen horns wind a mort and the 
deer is at siege, 

Let the dame of the castle prick forth 
on her jennet. 

And with water to wash the hands of 
her liege 

In a clean ewer with a fair towelling. 

Let her preside at the disembowel- 
ling." 

Now, my friend, if you had so little 
religion 

As to catch a hawk, some falcon- 
lanner, 

And thrust her broad wings like a 
banner 

Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; 

And if day by day and week by week 

You cut her claws, and sealed her 
eyes, 



THR FLTGflT OF THE DUCHESS. 



15 



And clipped her wings, and tied her 
beak, 

"Would it cause yon any great sur- 
prise 

If, when you decided to give her an 
airing, 

You found she needed a little pre- 
paring? 

— I say, should you he such a cur- 
mudgeon. 

If she clung to the perch, as to take it 
in dudgeon? 

Yet when the Duke to his lady signi- 
lied, 

Just a day hefore, as he judged most 
dignified, 

In what a pleasure she was to joartici- 
pate, — 

And, instead of leaping wide in 
flashes, 

Her e^'es just lifted their long 
lashes, 

As if pressed by fatigue even he could 
not dissipate, 

And duly acknowledged the Duke's 
forethought. 

But spoke of her health, if her health 
were worth aught, 

Of the weight by day and the watch 
by night. 

And much wrong now that used to be 
right, 

So, thanking him, declined the hunt- 
ing.— 

Was conduct ever more affronting ? 

"With all the ceremony settled — 

AVirh the towel ready, and the sewer 

Polishing up his oldest ewer. 

And the jennet pitched upon, a pie- 
bald, 

Black-barred, cream-coated, and pink 
eye-balled, — 

No wonder if the Duke was nettled ! 

And when she persisted neverthe- 
less, — 

"Well, I suppose here's the time to 
confess 

That there ran half round oiir lady's 
chamber 

A balcony none of the hardest to 
clamber ; 

And that Jacynth the tire-woman, 
ready in "waiting. 

Staid in call outside, what need of 
relating ? 

And since Jacynth was like a June 
rose, why, a fervent 

Adorer of Jacynth of course was 
your servant ; 



And if she had the habit to peep 
through the casenjent. 

How could I keeii at any vast dis- 
tance ? 

And so, as I say, on the lady's per- 
sistence, 

The Duke, dumb stricken with 
amazement, 

Stood for a wliile in a sultry smother. 

And then, with a smile that partook 
of the awful. 

Turned her over to his yellow mother 

To learn what was decorous and law- 
ful ; 

And the mother smelt blood with a 
cat-like instinct, 

As her cheek (juick wliitened through 
all its quince-tinct. 

Oh, but the lady heard the whole 
truth at once ! 

What meant she ? — Who was she ? 
— Her duty and station. 

The wisdom of age and the folly of 
youth, at once. 

Its decent regard and its fitting rela- 
tion — 

In brief, my friends, set all the devils 
in hell free 

And turn them out to carouse in a 
belfry 

And treat the priests to a fifty-part 
canon, 

And then you may guess how that 
tongue of hers ran on ! 

Well, somehow or other it ended at 
last, 

And, licking her whiskers, out she 
passed ; 

And after her, — making (he hoped) a 
face 

Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Sa- 
ladin, 

Stalked the Duke's self with the au- 
stere grace 

Of ancient hero or modern paladin, 

From door to staircase — oh such a 
solemn 

Unbending of the vertebral column ! 



However, at sunrise our company 
mustered ; 

And here was the huntsman bidding 
unkennel. 

And there 'noath his bonnet the prick- 
er blustered, 

With feather dank as a bough of wel 
fennel ; 



16 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



For the court-yard walls were filled 

with fog 
You might cut as an axe chops a log — 
Like so much wool for color and bulk- 

iness : 
And out I'ode the Duke in a perfect 

sulkiness ; 
Since, before breakfast, a man feels 

but queasily, 
And a sinking at the lower abdomen 
Begins the day with indifferent 

omen. 
And lo ! as he looked around un- 
easily. 
The sun ploughed the fog up and 

drove it asunder, 
This way and that, from the valley 

under ; 
And, looking through the court-yard 

arch, 
Down in the valley, what should meet 

him 
But a troop of gypsies on their march ? 
No doubt with the annual gifts to 

greet him. 



xin. 
Now, in your land, gypsies reach j'ou, 

only 
After reaching all lands beside : 
North they go. South they go, troo^v 

ing or lonely, 
And still, as they travel far and wide, 
Catch they and keep now a trace here, 

a trace there, 
That puts you in mind of a place here, 

a place there. 
But with us, I believe they rise out of 

the ground. 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly em- 
browned ; 
Born, no doubt, like insects which 

breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed 

on. 
For the earth — not a use to which 

they don't turn it. 
The ore that grows in the mountain's 

womb. 
Or the sand in the pits like a honey- 
comb. 
They sift and soften it, bake it and 

burn it — 
Whether they weld you, for instance, 

a snafHe 
With side-bars never a brute can 

battie; 



Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards 

within wards ; 
Or, if your colt's fore foot inclines to 

curve inwards. 
Horseshoes they hammer which turn 

on a swivel 
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 
Then they cast bells like the shell 

of the winkle 
That keep a stout heart in the ram 

with their tinkle ; 
But the sand — they pinch and pound 

it like otters ; 
Commend me to gypsy glass-makers 

and potters ! 
Glasses they'll blow you, crystal- 
clear. 
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall 

appear. 
As if in pure water you dropped and 

let die 
A bruised black-blooded mulberry ; 
And that other sort, their crowning 

pride. 
With long white threads distinct in- 
side. 
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots 

which dangle 
Loose such a length and never tangle. 
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the 

clear waters. 
And the cup-lily couches with all the 

white daughters : 
Such are the works they put their 

hand to, 
The uses they turn and twist iron and 

sand to. 
And these made the troop, which our 

Duke saw sally 
Toward his castle from out of the 

valle3'. 
Men and women, like new-hatched 

spiders. 
Come out with the morning to greet 

our riders. 
And uj) they wound till they reached 

the ditch, 
Whereat all stopped save one, a 

witch 
That I knew, as she hobbled from the 

group, 
By her gait directly and her stoop, 
I, whom Jacynth was used to impor- 
tune 
To let that same witch tell us our for- 
tune. 
The oldest gypsy then above ground ; 
And, sure as the autumn season came 

round, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



17 



She paid us a visit for profit or pas- 
time, 

And every time, as she swore, for the 
last time. 

And presently she was seen to sidle 

Up to the Duke till she touched his 
bridle, 

So that the horse of a sudden reared 
up 

As under its nose the old witch peered 
up 

"SVith her worn-out eyes, or rather eye- 
holes, 

Of no use now but to gather brine, 

And began a kind of level whine 

Such as they used to sing to their 
viols 

When their ditties they go grinding 

Ui) and down with nobody minding ; 

And then, as of old, at the end of the 
humming 

Her usual presents were forthcoming 

— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest 
of trebles 

(Just a seashore stone holding a doz- 
en fine pebbles), 

Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw 
on a pipe-end, — 

And so she awaited her annual sti- 
pend. 

But this rime the Duke would scarcely 
vouchsafe 

A word in reply ; and in vain she 
felt 

With twitching fingers at her belt 

For the purse of sleek pine-martin 
pelt, 

Ready to put what he gave in her 
pouch safe, — 

Till, either to quicken his api^rehen- 
sion. 

Or possibly with an after-intention. 

She was come, she said, to i)ay her 
duty 

To the new Duchess, the youthful 
beauty. 

No sooner had she named his lady, 

Than a shine lit up the face so shady. 

And its smirk returned with a novel 
meaning — 

For it struck him, the babe just want- 
ed weaning ; 

If one gave her a taste of what life 
was and sorrow, 

She^ foolish to-day, would be wiser 
to-morrow ; " 

And who so fit a teacher of trouble 

As this sordid crone bent well-nigh 
double ? 



So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture 

(If such it was, for they grow so hir- 
sute 

That their own fleece serves for nat- 
ural fur-suit) 

He was contrasting, 'twas plain from 
his gesture. 

The life of the lady so flower-like and 
delicate 

With the loathsome squalor of this 
helicat. 

I, in brief, was the man the Duke 
beckoned 

From out of the throng ; and while I 
drew near 

He told the crone — as I since have 
reckoned 

By the way he bent and spoke into 
her ear 

With circumspection and mystery — 

The main of the lady's history, 

Her frowardness and ingratitude ; 

And for all the crone's submissive 
attitude 

I could see round her mouth the loose 
plaits tightening, 

And her brow with assenting intelli- 
gence brightening. 

As though she engaged with hearty 
good will 

Whatever he now might enjoin to 
fulfil. 

And promised the lady a thorough 
frightening. 

And so, just giving her a glimpse 

Of a purse, with the air of a man who 
imi>s 

The wing of the hawk that shall fetch 
the hernshaw, 

He bade me take the gypsy mother 

And set her telling some story or 
other 

Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw. 

To while away a weary hour 

For the lady left alone in her bower, 

W^hose mind and body craved exer- 
tion 

And yet shrank from all better diver- 
sion. 

xrv. 
Then clapping heel to his horse, the 

mere curveter. 
Out rode the Duke, and after his 

hollo 
Horses and hounds swept, huntsman 

and servitor, 
And back I turned and bade the crone 

follow. 



18 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



And wliat makes lue confident what's 

to be told 3'ou 
Had all along "been of this crone's 

devising, 
Is, that, on looking round shari)lj, 

behold YOU, 
There was a noveltj' quick as surpris- 
ing : 
For first, she had sliot up a full head 

in stature, 
And her step kept pace with mine nor 

faltered, 
As if age had foregone its usurpature. 
And the ignoble mien was wholly 

altered, 
And the face looked quite of another 

nature, 
And the change reached too, whatever 

the change meant. 
Her shagg}' wolf-skin cloak's arrange- 
ment : 
For where its tatters hung loose like 

sedges. 
Gold coins were glittering on the 

edges, 
Like the liand-roll strung with to)nans 
AVhich proves the veil a Persian 

woman's : 
And under her hrow, like a snail's 

horns newly 
Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 
Live and aware looked out of their 

places. 
So, we went and found Jacynth at the 

entry 
Of the lady's chamber standing sen- 
try ; 
I told the command and produced my 

companion, 
And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any 

one, 
For since last night, by the same 

token. 
Not a single word had the lady 

si>oken : 
They Avent in both to the presence 

together. 
While I in the balcony watched the 

weather. 



And now, what took place at the very 

first of all, 
I cannot tell, as I never could learn 

it : 
Jacynth constantly wished a curse to 

fall 
On that little head of hers and burn it 



If she knew how she came to drop so 
soundly 

Asleep of a sudden, and there cour 
tinue 

The Avhole time, sleeping as pro- 
foundly ^ 

As one of the hoars my father would 
pin you 

'Twixt the eyes where life holds gar- 
rison, 

— Jacynth forgive me the comparison! 
But where I begin my own narration 
Is a little after I took my station 

To breathe the fresh air from the 

balcony. 
And, having in those days a falcon 

eye. 
To follow the hunt through the open 

country, 
From where the bushes thinlier 

crested 
The hillocks, to a plain where's not 

one tree. 
When, in a moment, my ear was 

arrested 
By — was it singing, or was it saying, 
Or a strange musical instrument play- 
ing 
In the chamber? — and to be certain 
I pushed the lattice, pulled the cur- 
tain, 
And there la.y Jacynth asleep. 
Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, 
In a rosy sleep along the fioor 
With her head against the door ; 
While in the midst, on the seat of 

state. 
Was a queen — the gypsy woman late, 
With head and lace downbent 
On the lady's head and face intent : 
For, coiled at her feet like a child at 

ease. 
The lady sat between her knees, 
And o'er them the lady's clasped 

hands met, 
And on those hands her chin was set. 
And her upturned face met the face 

of the crone 
Wherein the eyes had grown and 

grown 
As if she could double and quadruple 
At pleasure the play of either pupil 

— Very like, by her hands' slow fan- 

ning, 

As u]i and down like a gor-crow's 
flap[)ers 

They moved to measure, or bell- 
clappers. 

I said, " Is it blessing, is it banning, 



THE FLJGTJT OF THE DUCHESS. 



19 



Do they applaud you or burlesque 
you — 

Tliose hands and fingers with no flesh 
on ?" 

But, just as I thought to spring in to 
the rescue, 

At once I was stopped by the lady's 
expression : 

For it was life her eyes were drinking 

From the crone's wide pair above un- 
winking, 

— Life's pure fire, received without 

shrinking. 

Into the heart and breast whose heav- 
ing 

Told you no single drop they were 
leaving, 

— Life, that filling her, passed re- 

dundant 

Into her very hair, back swerving 

Over each shoulder, loose and abun- 
dant, 

As her head thrown back showed the 
white throat curving ; 

And the A^ery tresses shared in the 
pleasure. 

Moving to the mystic measure, 

Bounding as the bosom bounded. 

I stopped short, more and more con- 
founded » 

As still her cheeks burned and eyes 
glistened. 

As she listened and she listened : 

When all at once a hand detained 
me. 

The selfsame contagion gained me, 

And I kept time to the wondrous 
cliinie, 

Making out words and prose and 
rliyme, 

Till it seemed that the music furled 

Its wings like a task fulfilled, and 
dropped 

From under the words it first had 
propped. 

And left them midway in the world, 

Word took word as hand takes 
hand, 

I could hear at last, and understand. 

And when I held the unbroken thread, 

The gypsy said, — 

" And so at last we find my tribe. 
And so I set thee in the midst. 
And to one and all of rhem describe 
What thou saidst and what thou 

didst, 
Our long and terrible journey through. 
And all thou art ready to say and do 



In the trials That remain : 

I trace them the vein and the other 

vein 
That meet on thy brow and part again, 
Making our rapid mystic mark ; 
And I bid my people prove and probe 
Each eye's profound and glorious 

globe. 
Till they detect the kindred spark 
In those depths so dear and dark. 
Like the spots that snap and burst 

and flee, 
Circling over the midnight sea. 
And on that round young cheek of 

thine 
I make them recognize tlie tinge. 
As when of the costly scarlet wine 
They drip so much as will impinge 
And spread in a thinnest scale afloat 
One thick gold drojD from the olive's 

coat 
Over a silver plate whose sheen 
Still through the mixture shall be seen. 
For so I prove thee, to one and all. 
Fit, when my people ope their breast, 
To see the sign, and hear the call, 
And take the a'Ow, and stand the test 
Which adds one more child to the 

rest — 
When the breast is bare and the arms 

are wide. 
And the world is left outside. 
For there is probation to decree. 
And many and long must the trials be 
Thou shait victoriously endure, 
If that brow is true and those ej^es 

are sure ; 
Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay 
Of the ]irize he dug from its moun- 
tain tomb, — 
Let once the vindicating ray 
Leap out amid the anxious gloom, 
And steel and fire have done their 

part, 
And the prize falls on its finder's 

heart ; 
So, trial after trial past. 
Wilt thou fall at the very last 
Breathless, half in trance 
With the thrill of the great deliver- 
ance, 
Into our arms for evermore ; 
And thou shalt know, those arms 

once curled 
About thee, what we knew before, 
How love is the only good in the 

world. 
Henceforth be loved as heart (\an love, 
Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 



20 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



Stand up, look below, 

It is our life at thy feet we throw 

To step with intolight and joy ; 

Not a power of life but we einploy 

To satisfy thy nature's want ; 

Art thou the tree that props the 

plant, 
Or the climbing plant that seeks the 

tree — 
Canst thou help us, must we help 

thee ? 
If any two creatures grew into one, 
They would do more than the world 

has done ; 
Though each apart were never so 

weak, 
Ye vainly through the world should 

seek 
For the knowledge and the might 
Which in such union grew their right : 
So, to approach at least that end, 
And blend, — as much as may be, 

blend 
Thee with us or us with thee, — 
As climbing plant or propping tree. 
Shall some oue deck thee over and 

down, 
Up and about, with blossoms and 

leaves ? 
Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland 

crown, 
Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine 

cleaves. 
Die on thy boughs and disappear 
While not a leaf of thine is sere ? 
Or is the other fate in store, 
And art thou fitted to adore, 
To give tliy wondrous self away, 
And take a stronger nature's sway? 
I foresee and could foretell 
Thy future portion, sure and well : 
But those passionate eyes speak true, 

speak true. 
Let them say what thou shalt do ! 
Only be sure thy daily life, 
In its peace or in its strife. 
Never shall be unobserved ; 
We pursue thy whole career. 
And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, — 
Lo, hast thou kept thy path or 

swerved, 
We are beside thee in all thy ways, 
With our blame, with our praise, 
Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 
Glad, angry — but indifferent, no ! 
Whether it: be thy lot to go, 
For the good of us all, where the 

haters meet 
In the crowded city's horrible street ; 



Or thou step alone through the morass 

Where never sound yet was 

Save the dry quick clap of the stork's 

bill, 
For the air is still, and the water 

still, 
When the blue breast of the dipping 

coot 
Dives under, and all is mute. 
So at the last shall come old age, 
Decrepit as befits that stage ; 
How else wouldst thou retire apart 
With the hoarded memories of thy 

heart. 
And gather all to the very leasT 
Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, 
Let fall through eagerness to find 
The crowning dainties yet behind ? 
Ponder on the entire past 
Laid together thus at last, 
When the twilight helps to fuse 
The first fresh with the faded hues, 
And the outline of the whole, 
As round eve's shades their frame- 
work roll, 
Grandh- fronts for once thy soul. 
And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 
Of yet another morning breaks. 
And like the hand which ends a 

dream , 
Death, with the might of his sun- 
beam. 
Touches the flesh and the soul 

awakes. 
Then"— 

Ay, then indeed something 
would happen ! 
But what ? For here her voice 

changed like a bird's; 
There grew more of the music and 

less of tlie words; 
Had Jacynth only been by me to clap 

pen 
To paper and put j^ou down every 

syllable 
With those clever clerklj^ fingers. 
All I've forgotten as well as what 

lingers 
In this old brain of mine that's but ill 

able 
To give you even this poor version 
Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with 

stammering! 
— More fault of those who had the 

hammering 
Of prosody into me and syntax, 
And did it, not with hobnails but tin- 
tacks! 
But to return from this excursion, — 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



21 



Just, do you mark, when the song 
was sweetest, 

The peace most deep and tlie charm 
completest. 

There came, shall I say, a snap — 

And the charm vanished ! 

And my sense returned, so strangely 
banished, 

And, starting as from a nap, 

I knew the crone was bewitching my 
lady, 

With Jacynth asleep; and but one 
spring made I 

Down from the casement, round to 
the portal. 

Another minute and I had entered, — 

"When the door opened, and more 
than mortal 

Stood, with a face where to my mind 
centred 

All beauties I ever saw or shall see. 

The Duchess : I stopped as if struck 
by palsy. 

She was so different, happy and beau- 
tiful, 

I felt at once that all was best. 

And that I had nothing to do, for the 
rest. 

But wait her commands, obey and be 
dutiful. 

Not that, in fact, there was any com- 
manding ; 

I saw the glory of her eye, 

And the brow's height and the 
breast's expanding, 

And I was hers to live or to die. 

As for finding what she wanted. 

You know God Almighty granted 

Such little signs should serve wild 
creatures 

To tell one another all their desires. 

So that each knows what his friend 
requires. 

And does its bidding without teach- 
ers, 

I preceded her ; the crone 

Followed silent and alone ; 

1 spoke to her, but she merely jab- 
bered 

In the old style ; both her eyes had 
slunk 

Back to their pits ; her stature 
shrunk ; 

In short, the soul in its body sunk 

Like a blade sent home to its scab- 
bard. 

"We descended, I preceding ; 

Crossed the court with nobody heed- 
ing ; 



All the world was at the chase. 
The court-yard like a desert-place. 
The stable em2)tied of its small fry ; 
I saddled myself the very palfry 
I remember jjatting while it carried 

her. 
The day she arrived and the Duke 

married her. 
And, do you know, though it 's easy 

deceiving 
One's self in such matters, I can't help 

believing 
The lady had not forgotten it either. 
And knew the poor devil so much 

beneath her 
Would have been only too glad, for 

her service, 
To dance on hot ploughshares like a 

Turk dervise. 
But, unable to pay proper duty where 

owing it. 
Was reduced to that pitiful method 

of showing it. 
For though, the moment I began set- 
ting 
His saddle on my own nag of Be- 

rold's begetting 
(Not that I meant to be obtrusive), 
She stopped me, while his rug was 

shifting. 
By a single rapid finger's lifting. 
And, with a gesture kind but conclu- 
sive. 
And a little shake of the head, re- 
fused me,— 
I say, although she never used me. 
Yet when she was mounted, the 

gypsy behind her, 
And I ventiired to remind her, 
I suppose with a voice of less steadi- 
ness 
Than usual, for my feeling exceeded 

me, 
— Something to the effect that I was 

in readiness 
Whenever God should jilease she 

needed me, — 
Then, do you know, her face looked 

down on me 
With a look that placed a crown on 

me, 
And she felt in her bosom, — mark, 

her bosom — 
And, as a flower-tree drops its 

blossom. 
Dropped me . . .ah! had it been a 

purse 
Of silver, my friend, or gold that's 

worse, 



22 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



Why, you see, as soon as I found my- 
self 

So understood, — that a true heart so 
in ay gain 

Such a reward, — I should have gone 
home again. 

Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned 
myself ! 

It was a little plait of hair 

Such as friends in a convent make 

To wear, each for the other's sake, — 

This, see, Avhich at my breast I wear, 

Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudg- 
ment). 

And ever shall till the Day of Judg- 
ment. 

And then, — and then, — to cut short, 
— this is idle. 

These are feelings it is not good to 
foster, — 

I pushed the gate wide, she shook the 
bridle, 

And the palfrey bounded, — and so 
we lost her. 



When the liquor's out why clink the 
cannikin ? 

I did think to describe you the panic in 

The redoubtable breast of our master 
the manikin. 

And what was the pitch of his moth- 
er's yellowness. 

How she turned as a shark to snap 
the spare-rib 

Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl- 
diving Carib, 

When she heard, what she called the 
flight of the feloness 

— But it seems such child's play. 

What they said and did with the lady 
away ! 

And to dance on, when we've lost the 
music, 

Always made me — and no doubt 
makes you — sick. 

Nay, to my mind, the world's face 
looked so stern 

As that sweet form disajipeared 
through the postern. 

She that kept it in constant good- 
humor. 

It ought to have stopped; there 
seemed nothing to do more. 

But the world thought otherwise and 
went on, 

And my head's one that its spite was 
spent on : 



Thirty years are fled since that morn- 
ing, 

And with them all my head's adorn- 
ing. 

Nor did the old Duchess die outright, 

As you expect, of suppressed spite, 

Tlie natural end of every adder 

Not suffered to empty its poison- 
bladder : 

But she and her son agreed, I take 
it, 

That no one should touch on the story 
to wake it. 

For the wound in the Duke's pride 
rankled fiery ; 

So, they made no search and small 
inquiry : 

And when fresh gypsies have paid us 
a visit, I've 

Noticed the couj)le were never in- 
quisitive. 

But told them they're folks the Duke 
don't want here. 

And bade them make haste and cross 
the frontier. 

Brief, the Duchess was gone and the 
Duke was glad of it. 

And the old one was in the young 
one's stead, 

And took, in her place, the household's 
head, 

And a blessed time the household had 
of it ! 

And were I not, as a man may say, 
cautious 

How I trench, more than needs, on 
the nauseous, 

I could favor you with sundry touches 

Of the paint-smutches with which the 
Duchess 

Heightened the mellowness of her 
cheek's j-ellowness 

(To get on faster) until at last her 

Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 

Of mucus and fucus from mere use of 
ceruse : 

In short, she grew from scalp to 
udder 

Just the object to make you shudder. 



xvn. 

You're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world 
without end ! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir- 
up 

As if somebody broached you a glori- 
ous runlet. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 



23 



Aud poured out. all lovelily, spark- 
lingly, sunlit, 

Our gi-eeii Moldavia, the streaky 
sirup, 

Cotuar as old as the time of the 
Druids — 

Friendsliiii may match '.vith that mon- 
arch of fluids ; 

Each supples a dry brain, fills you its 
ins-and-outs, 

Gives your life's honr-glass a shake 
when the thin sancl doul>ts 

"NVhetlier to run on or stop short, and 
guarantees 

Age is not all made of stark sloth and 
arrant ease. 

I liave seen my little lady once more, 

Jacynth, the gypsj*, Berold, and the 
rest of it/ 

For to me spoke the Duke, as I told 
you before ; 

I always wanted to make a clean 
breast of it : 

And now it is made — why, my heart's 
blood, that Went trickle. 

Trickle, but anon, iu such umddy 
driblets, 

Is pumped up brisk now, through the 
main ventricle. 

And genially floats me about the gib- 
lets. 

I'll tell you what I intend to do : 

I must see this fellow his sad life 
through — 

He is our Duke, after all, 

And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. 

My father was born here, and I in- 
herit 

His fame, a chain he bound his son 
with ; 

Could I i)ay in a lump I should pre- 
fer it,' 

But there's nt) mine to blow up and 
get done with : 

So, I must stay till the end of the 
chapter. 

For, as to our middle-age-manners- 
adai)ter. 

Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, 

Some day or other, his head in a mo- 
rion 

And breast in a hauberk, his heels 
he'll kick up. 

Slain by an onslaught fierce of hic- 
cup. 

And then, when red doth the sword 
of our Duke rust. 

And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrowu 
with a b'ue crust, 



Then I shall scrape togct'uer my earn- 
ings ; 

For, you sec, in the churchyard Ja- 
cynth reposes. 

And our children all went the way of 
the roses : 

It's a long lane that knows no turn- 
ings. 

One needs but little tackle to travel 
in; 

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue : 

And for a staff, what beats the jave- 
lin 

"VTith wliicli his boars my father 
pinned you? 

And then, for a purpose you shall 
hear presently. 

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump 
skinful, 

I shall go journeying, who but I, 
pleasantly ! 

Sorrow is vain and despondency sin- 
ful. 

What's a man's age ? He must hurry 
more, that's all : 

Cram in a day, what his youth took a 
year to hold : 

"SVTien we mind labor, then only, 
■we're too old — 

What age had ^Methusalem when he 
begat Saul ? 

And at last, as its haven some buffeted 
shiji sees 

(Come all the way from the north- 
parts with sperm oil). 

I hope to get safely out of the tur- 
moil 

And arrive one day at the land of the 
gypsies, 

And find my lady, or hear the last 
news of her 

From some old thief and son of Luci- 
fer, 

His forehead chapleted green with 
wrcathy hop, 

Sunburned all over like an .Erhiop. 

And when my Cotnar begins to o^wr- 
ate 

And the tongue of the rogue to run at 
a proper rate. 

And our wine-skin, tight once, shows 
each flaccid dent, 

I shall droj) in with — as if by acci- 
dent — 

" You never knew, then, how it all 
ended, 

What fortune good or bad attended 

The little ladv your Queeu be- 
friended ? " 



24 



SONG FROM '' PIPPA PASSES. 



— And when that's tokl me, what's 

remaining ? 

This world's too hard for my explain- 
ing. 

The same wise judge of matters equine 

Who still preferred some slim four- 
year-old 

To the hig-boned stock of mighty Be- 
rold, 

And, for strong Cotnar, drank French 
weak wine, 

He also must be such a lady's scorner! 

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: 

Now up, now down, the world's one 
seesaw. 

— So, I shall find out some snug cor- 

ner 

Under a hedge, like Orson the wood- 
knight, 

Turn myself round and bid the world 
good-night. 

And sleep a sound sleep till the trum- 
pet's blowing 

"Wakes me (unless priests cheat us 
laymen) 

To a world where will be no further 
throwing 

Pearls before swine that can't value 
them. Amen ! 



SONG FROM " PIPPA PASSES.' 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world. 



"HOW THEY BKOUGHT THE 
GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT 
TO AIX." 

[16-.] 



I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and 
he ; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal- 
loped all three ; 



"Good speed!" cried the watch, as 

the gate-bolts undrew ; 
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us gal- 

lojiing through ; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights 

sank to rest, • 
And into the midnight we galloped 

abreast. 

II. 
Not a word to each other ; we kept the 

great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 

changing oui place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its 

girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set 

the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained 

slacker the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a 

whit. 

ni. 
'Twas moonset at starting ; but, while 

we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight 

dawned clear ; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came 

out to see ; 
At DiifiFeld, 'twas morning as plain as 

could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we 

heard the half-chime, 
So, Joris broke silence with, " Yet 

there is time ! " 



At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden 
the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black 
every one, 

To stare through the mist at us gallop- 
ing past ; • 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland 
at last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting 
away 

The haze, as some bluff river head- 
land its spray : 



And his low head and crest, just one 

sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked 

out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — 

ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own 

master, askance I 



SOXG FROM 'PARACELSUS. 



25 



And the thick hea^-y spume-flakes 
which aye and anon 

His fierce lips shook upwards in gal- 
loping ou. 



By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried 
Joris, " Stay spur ! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the 
fault's not in her, 

"We'll remember at Aix " — for one 
heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck 
and staggering knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of 
the tlank, 

As down on her haunches she shud- 
dered and sank. 



So, we were left galloping, Joris and 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud 
in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a piti- 
less laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 
stubble like chaff ; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire 
sprang white. 

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for 
Aix is iu sight ! 



vm. 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in 
a moiuent his roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead 
as a stone ; 

And there was my Roland to bear the 
whole weight 

Of the news which alone could save 
Aix from her fate, 

"With his nostrils like pits full of 
blood to the brim, 

And with circles of red for his eye- 
sockets' rim. 



Then I cast loose my bufifcoat, each 

holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go 

belt aiui all. 
Stood up iu the stirrup, leaned, patted 

his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my 

horse without peer ; 



Clapped ray hands, laughed and sang, 
any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland gal- 
loped and stood. 



And all I remember is, friends flock- 
ing round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my 
knees on the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this 
Roland of mine. 

As I poured down his throat our last 
measure of wine. 

Which (the burgesses voted by com- 
mon consent) 

Was no more than his due who 
brought good news from Ghent. 



SONG FROM "PARACELSUS. 



I. 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes 

Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, 
Smeared with dull nard an Indian 
wipes 
From out her hair : such balsam 

falls 
Down seaside mountain pedes- 
tals, 
From tree-tops Avhere tired winds are 

fain, 
Spent with the vast and howling 

main, 
To treasure half their island gain. 



II. 

And strew faint sweetness from some 
old 
Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
Which breaks to dust wJien once un- 
rolled ; 
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
From closet long to (pnet vowed. 
With mothed and dropping arras 

hung, 
Mouldering her lute and books 

among, 
As when a queen, long dead, was 
young. 



26 



THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. 



THROUGH THE METIDJA 
TO ABD-EL-KADR. 

[1842.] 



As I ride, as I ride, 

"With a full heart for my guide, 

So its tide rocks my side, 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Tliat, as I were double-eyed, 

He, ill whom our Tribes confide, 

Is descried, ways uutried 

As I ride, as I ride. 



As I ride, as I ride 

To our Chief and his Allied, 

Who dares chide my heart's pride 

As I ride, as I ride ? 

Or are witnesses denied — 

Through the desert waste and wide 

Do I glide unespied 

As I ride, as I ride ? 

m. 

As I ride, as I ride, 

AVhen an inner voice has cried, 

The sands slide, nor abide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

O'er each visioned homicide 

That came vaunting (has he lied?) 

To reside — where he died. 

As 1 ride, as I ride. 



IV. 

As I ride, as I ride. 

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied. 

Yet his hide, streaked and pied. 

As I ride, as I ride, 

Shows where sweat has sprung and 

dried, 
— Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed — 
How has vied stride with stride 
As I ride, as I ride ! 



As I ride, as I ride. 

Could I loose what Fate has tied, 

Ere I i^ride, she should hide 

(As I ride, as I ride) 

All that's meant me — satisfied 

\Mien the Prophet and the Bride 

Stop veins I'd have subside 

As I ride, as I ride ! 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH 
CAMP. 



You know, we French stormed Rat- 
isbon : 

A mile or so away 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day; 
With neck out -thrust, yoxx fancy 
how. 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the j^rone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 



Just as perhaps he mused, *' My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery- smokes there 
flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 



Then off there flung in smiling ]oy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardlj' could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his 
breast 

AYas all but shot in two. 



" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by 
CJod's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your Hag-bird flap his vans 

Where I. to heart's desire. 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye 
flashed : his plans 

Soared up again like lire. 



V. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
Softened itself, as shearlies 

A fibn the mother-eagle's eye 
When her bruised eaglet breathes : 



7^- A GONDOLA. 



27 



You're wonuded ! " — " Nay," the 

soldier's pride 
Touched to the quick, he said, 
I'm killed. Sire!" And his chief 

beside, 
Smiling, the hoy fell dead. 



THE LOST LEADER. 



I. 
Just for a handful of silver he left us, 
Just for a ribbon to stick in his 
coat — 
Found tlie one gift of which fortune 
bereft us. 
Lost all the others, she lets us 
devote ; 
They, with the gold to giv^e, doled 
him out silver, 
So much was tlieirs who so little 
allowed : 
How all our copper had gone for his 
service ! 
Eags — were they purple, his heart 
had been proud ! 
"We that had loved him so, followed 
him, honored him, 
Lived in his mild and magnificent 
eye, 
Learned bis great language, caught 
his clear accents, 
Made him our jiattern to live and 
to die ! 
Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for 
us. 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — 
they watch from their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and 
tlie freemen, 
He alone sinks to the rear and the 
slaves ! 

II. 
"We shall march prospering, — not 
through bis presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from 
his lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts 
his quiescence. 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest 
bade aspire ; 
Blot out his name, then, record one 
lost soul more. 
One task more declined, one more 
footpath untrod, 



One more devil's-triumph and sorrow 
for angels. 
One wrong moi'e to man, one more 
insult to God ! 
Life's night begins : let him never 
come back to us ! 
There would be doubt, hesitation, 
and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glim- 
mer of twilight, 
Never glad contideut morning again! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him 
— strike gallantly. 
Menace our heart ere we master his 
own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowl- 
edge and wait us. 
Pardoned in heaven, the first by 
the throne ! 



IN A GONDOLA. 

He sings. 

I SEND my heart up to thee, all my 
heart 
In this my singing. 
For the stars help me, and the sea 
bears part ; 
The very night is clinging 
Closer to Venice' streets to leave one 
space 
Above me, whence thy face 
May light my joyous heart to thee its 
dwelling-place. 



She sjjeaks. 

Say after me, and try to say 
My very words, as if each word 
Came from you of your own accord, 
In your own voice, in your own 

way : 
" This woman's heart and soul and 

brain 
Are mine as much as this gold chain 
Sbe bids me wear ; which " (say again) 
" I choose to make by cherishing 
A ]>recious thing, or choose to fling 
Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 
And j'et once more say ... no word 

more ! 
Since words are only words. Give 

o'er I 



28 



7.V A GOjWDOLA. 



Unless you call me, all the same, 

Familiarly by my pet name, 

AVblch if the Three should hear you 

call, 
And me reply to, would proclaim 
At once our secret to them all. 
Ask of me, too, command me, blaiue — 
Do, break down the partition-wall 
'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds 
Curtained in dusk and sj/lendid folds ! 
What's left but— all of me to take ? 
I am the Three's : ]^revent them, slake 
Your thirst ! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, 
In practising with gems, can loose 
Their subtle s]iirit in his cruce 
And leave but ashes : so, sweet mage, 
Leave them my ashes when thy use 
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! 

He sings. 



Past we glide, and past, and past ! 

What's that poor Agnose doing 
Where they make the shutters fast ? 

Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing 
To his couch the purchased bride : 

Past we glide ! 



Past we glide, and past, and past ! 

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring 
Like a beacon to the blast ? 

Guests by hundreds, not one caring 
If the dear host's neck were wried : 

Past we glide ! 



She sings. 



The moth's kiss, first ! 

Kiss me as if you inade believe 

You were not sure, tiiis eve, 

How my face, your flower, had pursed 

Its petals up ; so, here and there 

You brush it, till I grow aware 

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. 



The bee's kiss, now ! 
Kiss me as if j'ou entered gay 
My heart at some noonday, 
Almd that dares not disallow 
The claim, so all is rendered up, 
And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 



He sings. 

I. 

What are we two ? 

I am a Jew, 

And carry thee, farther than friends 

can pursue. 
To a feast of our tribe; 
Where they need thee to bribe 
The Devil that blasts them unless he 

imbil)e 
Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever ! 

And now, 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 



Say again, what we are ? 

The sprite of a star, 

I lure thee above where the destinies 

bar 
My plumes their full play 
Till a ruddier ray 
Than my pale one announce there is 

withering away 
Some . . . Scatter the vision forever I 

And now, 
As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 

He muses. 

Oh! which were best, to roam or 

rest ? 
The land's lap or the water's breast? 
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 
Or swim in lucid shallows, just 
Eluding water-lily leaves. 
An inch from Death's black fingers, 

thrust 
To lock you, whom release he must: 
Which life were best on summer 

eves ? 



He speaks, musing. 

Lie back; could thought of mine im- 
prove you ? 
From this shoulder let there spring 
A wing; from This, another wing; 
Wings, not legs aud feet, shall move 

you ! 
Snow-white must they spring, to 

blend 
With your flesh, but I intend 
They shall deepen to the end, 
Broader, into burning gold, 
Till both wings crescent-wise infold 



IN A GONDOLA. 



29 



Your perfect self, from 'neath your 

feet 
To o'er your head, where, lo, they 

meet 
As if a million sword-blades hurled 
Defiance from you to the world ! 

Rescue me thou, the onl^^ real ! 
And scare away this mad ideal 
That came, nor motions to depart ! 
Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art! 



Still he muses. 



"What if the Three should catch at 

last 
Thy serenader ? While there's cast 
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
Oian pinions me, Himself has past 
His stylet tliroucch my back ; I reel ; 
And ... is it thou I feel ? 



TI. 

They trail me, these three godless 

knaves 
Past every church that saints and 

saves, 
Nor stop till, where the cold sea 

raves 
By Lido's wet accursed graves. 
They scoop mine, roll me to its 

brink, 
And ... on thy breast I sink ! 



She replies, mxtsing. 

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, 

elbow-deep, 
As I do : thus : were death so unlike 

sleep. 
Caught this way? Death's to fear 

from fiame or steel. 
Or poison (hnibtless ; but from water 

— feel ! 
Go find the bottom ! Would you stay 

me ? There ! 
Now pluck a great blade of that rib- 
bon-grass 
To plait in where the foolish jewel 

was, 
I flung away : since you have praised 

my hair, 
'Tis proper to be choice in what I 

wear. 



He speaks. 

Row home ? must we row home ? Too 

surely 
Know I where its front's demurely 
Over the Guidecca piled ; 
Window just with window mating, 
Door on door exactly waiting, 
All's the set face of a child : 
But behind it, where's a trace 
Of the staidness and reserve. 
And formal lines without a curve, 
In the same child's playing-face? 
No two windows look one way 
O'er the small sea-water thread 
Below them. Ah, the autumn day 
I, passing, saw you overhead ! 
First, out a cloud of curtain blew, 
Then a sweet cry, and last came 

you — 
To catch your lory that must needs 
Escape just then, of all times then. 
To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds 
And make me happiest of men. 
I scarce could breathe to see yon 

reach 
So far back o'er the balcony, 
To catch him ere he climbed too 

high 
Above you in the Smj'rna peach, 
That quick the round smooth cord of 

gold, 
This coiled hair on your head, un- 
rolled. 
Fell down you like a gorgeous snake 
The Roman girls were wont, of old, 
When Rome there was, for coolness* 

sake 
To let lie curling o'er their bosoms 
Dear lory, may his beak retain 
Ever its delicate rose stain. 
As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 
Had marked their thief to know 

again ! 

Stay longer yet, for others' sake 
Than mine ! What should your cham- 
ber do? 
— With all its rarities that ache 
In silence while day lasts, but wake 
At night-time and their life renew, 
Suspend(^d just to i>leasure you 
Who brought against their will to- 
gether 
These objects, and, while day lasts, 

weave 
Around them such a magic tether 
That dumb they look : your harp, 
believe, 



32 



EARTH'S IMMORIALITTES. 



XIV. 

"Woman, and will you cast 
For a word, quite off at last 

Me, your own, your You, — 

Since, as truth is true, 
I was You all the happy past — 

Me do you leave aghast 
With the" memories We amassed ? 



Love, if yon knew the light 
That your soul casts in my sight, 

How I look to you 

For the pure and true, 
And the beauteous and the right, — 

Bear with a moment's spite 
When a mere mote threats the white! 



XVI. 

What of a hasty word ? 

Is the fleshly iTeart not stirred 
By a worm's pin-prick 
Where its roots are quick ? 

See the eye, by a fly 's-foot blurred- 
Ear, when a straw is heard 

Scratch the brain's coat of curd ! 



XVII. 

Foul be the world or fair 

More or less, how can I care ? 
'Tis the world the same 
For my praise or blame, 

And endnrance is easy there. 
Wrong in the one thing rare — 

Oh, it is hard to bear ! 



Here's the spring back or close. 
When the almond-blossom blows ; 

We shall have the word 

In a minor third 
There is none but the cuckoo knows 

Heaps of the guelder-rose ! 
I must bear with it, I suppose. 



XIX. 

Could but November come, 
Were the noisy birds struck dumb 

At the warning slash 

Of his driver's-lash — 
I would laugh like the A'aliant Thumb 

Facing the castle glum 
And the giant's fee-faw-fum I 



Then, were the world well stripi^ed 
Of the gear wherein equipped 

We can stand apart. 

Heart dispense with heart 
In the sun, with the flowers un- 
nipped, — 

Oh, the world's hangings ripped, 
We were both in a bare-walled crypt ! 



Each in the crypt would cry, 

" But one freezes here ! and why ? 

When a heart, as chill. 

At my own would thrill 
Back to life, and its fires out-fly ? 

Heart, shall we live or die ? 
The rest . . . settle by and by ! " 

XXII. 

So, she'd eiface the score, 
And forgive me as before. 

It is twelve o'clock: 

I shall hear lier knock 
In the worst of a storm's uproar: 

I shall pull her through the door, 
I shall have her for evermore ! 



EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. 



See, as the prettiest graves will do in 

time, 
Our poet's wants the freshness of its 

prime; 
Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, 

the sods 
Have struggled through its binding 

osier rods; 
Headstone and half-sunk footstone 

lean awry. 
Wanting the brick-work promised by 

and by; 
How the ruinute gray lichens, plate 

o'er plate. 
Have softened down the crisp-cut 

name and date ! 



So, the year's done with ! 

{Lore me forever !) 
All March begun with, 

April's endeavor ; 



THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 



33 



May-wreaths that hound me 
June needs must sever; 

Now snows fall round ine, 
Quenchiug June's fever — 
{Love me forever .') 



THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 



I SAID — Then, dearest, since 'tis so, 
Since now at leni^th my fate I know, 
Since notliing all my love avails, 
Since all, my life seemed meant for, 

fails, 
Since this was written and needs 

must be — 
My whole heart rises up to bless 
Your name in pride and thankfulness ! 
Take back the hoj^e you gave, — 1 

claim 
Only a memory of the same, 
— And this beside, if j^ou will not 

blame. 
Your leave for one more last ride 

with me. 



My mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
Those deep dark eyes where pride 

demurs 
When pity would be softening through, 
Fixed me a brearhiug-while or two 
With life or death in the balance: 

right ! 
The blood replenished me again ; 
My last thought was at least not 

vain : 
I and my mistress, side by side, 
Shall be together, breathe and ride. 
So, one day more am I deified 
SVho knows but the world may end 

to-night ? 



Hush! if you saw some western cloud 
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 
By many benedictions — sun's 
And moon's and evening-star's at 

once — 
And so, you, looking and loving 

best, 
Conscious grew, your passion drew 
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine 

too, 



Down on you, near and yet more near. 
Till liesh must fade for heaven was 

here ! — 
Thus leant she and lingered — joy and 

fear 
Thus lay she a moment on my 

breast. 

IV. 

Then we began to ride. My soul 
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped 

scroll 
Freshening and fluttering in the 

wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 
What need to" strive with a life 

awry ? 
Had I said that, had I done this, 
So might I gain, so might I miss. 
Might she have loved me? just as 

well 
She might have hated, who can tell! 
Where had I been now if the worst 

befell? 
And here we are riding, she and I. 



Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? 
Why, all men strive and who suc- 
ceeds ? 
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew. 
Saw other regions, cities new. 
As the w^orld rushed by on either 
side. 
I thought, — All labor, yet no less 
Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
Look at the end of work, contrast 
The petty done, the undone ^•ast, 
This present of theirs with the hope- 
ful past ! 
I hoped she would love me : here 
we ride. 

VI. 

What hand and brain went ever 
paired ? 

What heart alike conceived and 
dared ? 

What act proved all its thought had 
been ? 

What will but felt the fleshy screen ? 
We ride and I see her bosom heave. 

There's many a crown for who can 
reach. 

Ten lines, a statesman's life in each I 

The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 

A soldier's doing ! what atones ? 

They scratch his name on the Abbey- 
stones. 
My riding is better, by their leave. 



34 



MESMERISM. 



What does it all mean, poet ? Well, 
Your brams beat into rhythm, vou 

tell 
What we felt only ; yon expressed 
You hold things beautiful the best, 
And pace them in rhyme so, side 

by side. 
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but 

then, 
Have you yourself what's best for 

men? 
Are you — poor, sick, old ere your 

time — 
Nearer one whit your own sublime 
Than we who have never turned a 

rhyme ? 
Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. 

vni. 
And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
A score of years to Art, her slave, 
And that's your Venus, whence we 

turn 
To yonder girl that fords the burn .' 

You acquiesce, and shall I repine? 
What, man of music, you grown gray 
With notes and nothing else to say, 
Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
•' Greatly his opera's strains intend, 
But in music we know how fashions 
end! " 
I gave my youth; but we ride, in 
fine. 

IX. 

Who knows what's fit for us ? Had 

fate 
Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
My being — had I signed tlie bond — 
Still one must lead some life beyond. 
Have a bliss to die with, dim-de- 
scried. 
This foot once planted on the goal. 
This glory -garland round my soul, 
Could I descry such ? Try and test ! 
I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
Earth being so good, would heaven 
seem best ? 
Now, heaven and she are beyond 
this ride. 

X. 

And yet — she has not spoke so long! 

What if heaAen be that, fair and 
strong 

At life's best, with our eyes uptiirned 

Whither life's flower is first dis- 
cerned. 



W^e, fixed so, ever sliould so abide ? 
What if we still ride on, we two, 
With life forever old yet new, 
Changed not in kind but in degree. 
The instant made eternity, — 
And heaven just prove that I and she 

Ride, ride together, forever ride ? 



MESMERISM. 



All, I believed is true ! 

I am able yet 

All I want, to get 
By a method as strange as new. 
Dare I trust the same to you ? 



II. 

If at night, when doors are shut, 

And the wood-worm picks, 

And the death-watch ticks. 

And The bar has a flag of smut, 

And a cat's in the water-butt — 



And the socket floats and flares, 

And the house-beams groan, 

And a foot unknown 

Is surujised on the garret-stairs, 

And the locks slip unawares — 



And the spider, to serve his ends, 

By a sudden thread. 

Arms and legs outspread, 
On the table's midst descends, 
Comes to find, God knows what 
friends ! — 



If since eve drew in, I say, 
I have sat and brought 
(So to speak) my thought 
To bear on the woman away, 
Till I felt my hair turn gray — 

VI. 

Till I seemed to have and hold, 

In the A-acancy 

'Twixt the wall and me 
From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold 
To the foot in its muslin fold — 



MESMERISM. 



35 



Have and hold, then and there, 
Her,'from head to foot, 
Breathing and mute. 

Passive and yet aware, 

In the grasp of my steady stare 



Hold and have, there and then. 
All her body and soul 
That completes ray whole, 
All that women add to men, 
In the clutch of my steady ken 



Having and holding, till 

I imprint her fast 

On the void at last 
As the sun does whom he will 
By the calotypist's skill — 

X. 

Then, — if my heart's strength serve, 
And through all and each 
Of the veils I reach 

To her soul and never swerve, 

Knitting an iron nerve — 



Command her soul to advance 
And inform the shape 
Which has made escape 
And before my countenance 
Answers me glance for glance - 

XII. 

I, still with a gesture fit 
Of my hands that best 
Do my soul's behest, 
Pointing the power from it, 
While myself do steadfast sit - 

XIII. 

Steadfast and still the same 
On my object bent, 
Wliile the hands give vent 
To my ardor and my aim 
And break into very flame — 



Then I reach, I must believe, 
Not her soul in vain. 
For to me again 
It reaches, and past retrieve 
Is wound in the toils I weave 



And must follow as I require. 

As befits a thrall, 

Bringing flesh and all, 
Essence and earth-attire, 
To the source of the tractile fire : 

XVI. 

Till the house called hers, not mine, 

With a growing weight 

Seems to suffocate 
If she break not its leaden line 
And escape from its close confine. 

XVII. 

Out of doors into the night ! 

On to the maze 

Of the wild wood-ways, 
Not turning to left nor right 
From the pathway, blind with sight - 

. XVIII. 

Making through rain and wind 
O'er the broken shrubs, 
'Twixt the stems and stubs. 
With a still, composed, strong mind, 
Not a care for the world behind — 

XIX. 

Swifter and still more swift, 

As the crowding peace 

Doth to joy increase 
In the wide "blind eyes uplift 
Through the darkness and the driftl 

XX. 

While I — to the shape, I, too, 

Feel my soul dilate : 

Nor a whit abate, 
And relax not a gesture due, 
As I see my belief come true. 

XXI. 

For, there ! have I drawn or no 

Life to that lip? 

Do my fingers dip 
In a flame wliich again they throw 
On the cheek that breaks aglow ? 



XXII. 

Ha ! was the hair so first ? 

What, unfilleted, 

Made alive, and spread 
Thiough the A'oid with a rich outburst, 
Chestnut gold-iuterspersed ? 



36 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



xxiir. 
Like the doors of a casket-shrine, 

See, on either side, 

Her two arras divide 
Till the heart betwixt raakes sign, 
" Take me, for I am thine ! " 

XXIV. 

" Now — now " — the door is heard ! 

Hark, tlie stairs ! and near — 

Nearer — and here — 

" Now ! " and, at call the third, 
She enters without a word. 

x^v. 
On doth she march and on 

To the fancied shape ; 

It is, past escape. 
Herself, now : ihe dream is done, 
And the shadow and she are one. 

xxvr. 
First, I will pray. Do Thou 

That ownest the soul. 

Yet wilt grant control 
To another, nor disallow 
For a time, restrain me now ! 

xxvir. 
I admonish me while I may, 

Not to squander guilt, 

Since require Thou wilt 
At my hand its price one day ! 
What the price is, who can say ? 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



I. 

How well I know what I mean to 
do 
When the long dark autumn even- 
ings come ; 
And where, my soul, is thy pleasant 
hue ? 
With the music of all thy voices, 
dumb 
In life's November too ! 



IT. 

I shall be found by the fire, suppose. 
O'er a great wise book, as beseem- 
eth age ; 



While the shutters flap as the cross- 
wind blows. 
And I turn the page, and I turn the 
page. 

Not verse now, only prose ! 



Till the young ones whisper, finger 
on lip, 

" There he is at it, deep in Greek : 
Now then, or neVer, out we slip 

To cut from the hazels by the creek 
A mainmast for our ship ! " 



I shall be at it indeed, my friends ! 

Greek puts already on either side 
Such a branch-work forth as soon ex- 
tends 

To a vista opening far and wide, 
And I pass out where it ends. 



v. 
The outside frame, like your hazel- 
trees— 
But the inside-archway widens fast, 
And a rarer sort succeeds to these, 

And we slope to Italy at last 
And youth, by green degrees. 

vi. 
I follow wherever I am led. 

Knowing so well the leader's hand : 
O woman-country, wooed not wed, 
Loved all the more by earth's male- 
lands. 
Laid to their hearts instead ! 



Look at the ruined chapel again 
Half-way up in the Alpine gorge I 

Is that a tower, I point you plain. 
Or is it a mill, or an iron forge 

Breaks solitude in vain ? 



vin. 
A turn, and we stand in the heart of 
things ; 
The wootls are round us, heaped 
and dim : 
From slab to slab how it slips and 
springs, 
The thread of water single and slim, 
Through the ravage some torrent 
brings ! 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 



37 



Does it feed the little lake below ? 

That speck of white just on its marge 
Is Pella ; see, in the evening glow, 

How sharp the silver spear-heads 
charge 
AYheu Alp meets heaven in snow ! 



On our other side is the straight-up 
rock ; 
And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge 
and it 
By bowlder-stones, where lichens 
mock 
The marks on a moth, and small 
ferns fit 
Their teeth to the polished block. 



Oh the sense of the yellow mountain 
tiowers. 
And thorny balls, each three in one, 
The chestnuts throw on our path in 
showers ! 
For the drop of the woodland fruit's 
begun, 
These early November hours, 



That crimson the creeper's leaf across 
Like a splash of blood, intense, ab- 
rupt, 
O'er a shield else gold from rim to 
boss. 
And lay it for show on the fairy- 
cupped 
Elf-needled mat of moss, 



By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undi- 
vulged 
Last evening — nay, in to-day's first 
dew 
Yon sudden coral nipple bulged. 
Where a freaked fawn-colored 
tiaky crew 
Of toad-stoolis peep Indulged. 



And yonder, at foot of the fronting 
ridge 
That takes the turn to a range be- 
yond, 



Is the chapel reached by the one- 
arched bridge, 
Where the water is stopped in a 
stagnant pond 

Danced over by the midge. 



The chapel and bridge are of stone 
alike. 
Blackish-gray and mostly wet ; 
Cut hemp- stalks steep in "^the narrow- 
dike. 
See here again, how the lichens fret 
And the roots of the ivy strike ! 

XVI. 

Poor little place, where its one priest 
comes 
On a festa-day, if he comes at all, 
To the dozen folk from their scattered 
homes. 
Gathered within that precinct small 
By the dozen ways one roams — 



To drop from the charcoal-burners' 
huts, 
Or climb from the hemp-dresser's 
low shed, 
Leave the grange where the wood- 
man stores his nuts, 
Or the wattled cote where the 
fowlers spread 
Their gear on the rock's bare juts. 

XVIII. 

It has some pretension too, this front, 
With its bit of fresco half-moon- 
wise 

Set over the porch. Art's early w^ont : 
'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, 

But has borne the weather's brunt — 

XIX. 

Not from the fault of the builder, 
though, 
For a pent-house properly projects 
Where three carved beams make a 
certain show. 
Dating — good thought of our archi- 
tect's — 
'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. 

XX. 

And all day long a bird sings there. 
And a vStray sheep drinks at the 
pond at times ; 



The place is silent and aware ; 
It has had its scenes, its joys and 
crimes, 
But that is its own affair. 

XXI. 

My perfect wife, my Leonor, 
O heart, my own ! O eyes, mine 
too ! 
"Whom else could I dare look back- 
ward for, 
With whom beside should I dare 
pursue 
The j)ath gray heads abhor ? 

XXII. 

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with 
them ; 
Youth, flowery all the way, there 
stops — 
Not they ; age threatens and they con- 
temn, 
Till they reach the gulf wherein 
youth drops, 
One inch from our life's safe hem ! 

XXIII. 

"With me, youth led ... I will speak 
now. 
No longer watch you as you sit 
Reading by firelight, that great brow 
And the spirit-small hand propping 
it, 
Mutely my heart knows how — 

XXIV. 

"When, if I think but deep enough. 
You are wont to answer, prompt as 
rhyme ; 
And you, too, find without rebuff 
Response your soul seeks many a 
time, 
Piercins its fine flesh-stuff. 



XXV. 

My own, confirm me ! If I tread 
This path back, is it not in pride 

To think how little I dreamed it led 
To an age so blest that, by its side. 

Youth seems the waste instead ? 



XXVI. 

My own, see where the years con- 
duct ! 
At first, 'twas something our two 
souls 



Should mix as mists do ; each is 
sucked 
In each now : on, the new stream 
rolls, 
Whatever rocks obstruct. 

XXVII. 

Think, when our one soul under- 
stands 
The great Word which makes all 
tilings new, 
When earth breaks up and heaven 
expands, 
How will the change strike me and 
you 
In the house not made with hands? 



Oh I I must feel your brain prompt 
mine, 

Your heart anticijiate my heart, 
You must be just before, in fine, 

See and make me see, for your part, 
New dej)ths of the divine! 

XXIX. 

But who could have expected this 
When we two drew togetlier first 

Just for the obvious human bliss, 
To satisfy life's daily tliirst 

With a thing men seldom miss ? 

XXX. 

Come back with me to the first of 
all, 

Let us lean and love it over again, 
Let us now forget and now recall, 

Break the rosary in a pearh' rain, 
And gather what we let fall ! 

XXXI. 

What did I say? — that a small bird 
sings 
All day long, save when a brown 
pair 
Of hawks from the wood float with 
wide wings 
Strained to a bell : 'gainst noonday 
glare 
You count the streaks and rings. 

xxxir. 

But at afternoon or almost eve 
'Tis better; then the silence grows 

To that degree, you half believe 
It must get rid of what it knows, 

Its bosom does so heave. 



BY THE FIRESfDE. 



39 



XXXIII. 

Hither we walked then, side by side, 
Ann in arm and cheek to cheek, 

And still I (juestioned or replied, 
While my heart, convulsed to really 
speak, 

Lay choking in its pride. 

XXXIV. 

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross. 
And pity and praise the chapel 
sweet. 
And care about the fresco's loss. 
And wish for our souls a like re- 
treat. 
And wonder at the moss. 



XXXV. 

stoop and kneel on the settle under. 
Look through the window's grated 
square : 
Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder. 
The cross is down and the altar 
bare. 
As if thieves don't fear thunder. 



XXXVI. 

"We stoop and look in through the 
grate. 
See the little porch and rustic door, 
Read duly the dead builder's date ; 
Then cross the bridge that we 
crossed before, 
Take the path again — but wait ! 

XXXVII, 

Oh moment one and infinite ! 
The water slips o'er stock and 
atone ; 
The West is tender, hardly bright : 
How gray at once is the evening 
grown — 
One star, its chrysolite ! 



XXXVIII. 

We two stood there with never a 
third. 
But each by each, as each knew 
well : 
The sights we saw and the sounds we 
heard, 
The lights and the shades made up 
a spell 
Till the trouble grew and stirred. 



XXXIX. 

Oh, the little more, and how much it 
is! 
And the little less, and what worlds 
away ! 
How a sound shall quicken content 
to bliss, 
Or a breath suspend the blood's 
best play. 
And life be a proof of this ! 

XL. 

Had she willed it, still had stood the 
screen 
So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love 
and her : 

I could fix her face with a guard be- 
tween, 
And find her soul as when friends 
confer, 

rriends — lovers that might have 
been. 

XLI. 

For my heart had a touch of the wood- 
land tiuje. 
Wanting to sleep now over its best. 
Shake the whole tree in the summer- 
prim.e, 
But bring to the last leaf no such 
test ! 
" Hold the last fast ! " runs the 
rhyme. 

XLII. 

For a chance to make your little 
much. 
To gain a lover and lose a friend. 
Venture the tree and a myriad such, 
When nothing you mar but the year 
can mend : 
But a last leaf — fear to touch I 

XLIII. 

Yet should it unfasten itself and fall 
Eddying down till it find your face 
At some slight wind — best chance of 
all ! 
Be your heart henceforth its dwell- 
ing-place 
You trembled to forestall I 



XLIV. 

Worth how well, those dark gray 
eyes, 
That hair so dark and dear, how 
worth 



40 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 



That a man should strive and agonize, 

And taste a veriest hell on earth 
For the hope of such a prize ! 

XLV. 

You might have turned and tried a 
man, 
Set him a space to weary and wear. 
And prove which suited more your 
plan, 
His best of hope or his worst de- 
spair, 
Yet end as he began. 

XL VI. 

But you spared me this, like the heart 
you are, 
And filled my empty heart at a 
word. 
If two lives join, there is oft a scar, 
They are one and one, with a shad- 
owy third; 
One near one is too far. 

XLVII. 

A moment after, and hands unseen 
Were hanging the night around us 
fast; 
But we knew that a bar was broken 
between 
Life and life: we were mixed at last 
In spite of the mortal screen. 

XL VIII. 

The forests had done it ; there they 
stood; 
"We caught for a moment the pow- 
ers at play : 
They had mingled us so, for once and 
good. 
Their work was done — we might 
go or stay, 
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 

XLIX. 

How the world is made for each of us ! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment's product 
thus. 

When a soul declares itself — to wit, 
By its fruit, the thing it does ! 



L. 

Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit, 
It forwards the general deed of 
man, 



And each of the Many helps to recruit 
The life of the race by a general 
plan ; 
Each living his own, to boot. 



LI. 

I am named and known bj^ that mo- 
ment's feat ; 
There took my station and degree ; 
So grew my own small life com- 
plete, 
As nature obtained her best of me — 
One born to love you, sweet ! 



And to watch you sink by the fireside 
now 
Back again, as you mutelj"^ sit 
Musing by fire-light, that great brow 
And the spirit-small hand propping 
it. 
Yonder, my heart knows how ! 



Llll. 

So, earth has gained by one man the 
more. 
And the gain of earth must be 
heaven's gain too ; 
And the whole is well worth think- 
ing o'er 
When autumn comes : which I 
mean to do 
One da3", as I said before. 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUS- 
BAND. 



I. 

My love, this is the bitterest, that 

thou — 
Who art all truth, and who dost love 

me now 
As thine eyes say, as thy voice 

breaks to say — 
Shouldst love so'^trulj^ and couldst 

love me still 
A whole long life through, had but 

love its will, 
Would death, that leads me from 

thee, brook delay. 



AXT WIFE TO AXT HUSBAND. 



41 



I hare but to be by thee, and thy hand 
Will never let mine go, nor heart 

withstand 
The beating of my heart to reach 

its place. 
When shall I look for thee and feel 

thee gone ? 
When cry for the old comfort and 

find none ? 
Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy 

face. 

m. 
Oh, I should fade — 'tis willed so! 

Might I save. 
Gladly I would, whatever beauty 
gave 
Joy to thy sense, for that was pre- 
cious too. 
It is not to be granted. But the soul 
Whence the iove comes, all ravage 
leaves that whole ; 
Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes 
all things new. 



It would not be because my eye grew 

dim 
Thou couldst not find the love there, 

thanks to Him 
Who never is dishonored in the 

spark 
He gave us from his fire of fires, and 

bade 
Remeu)\)er whence it sprang, nor be 

afraid 
While that bums on, though all the 

rest grow dark. 

v. 
So, how thou wouldst be i>erfect, 

white and clean 

Outside as inside, soul and soul's de- 
mesne 
Alike, this body given to show it 
by ! 

Oh, three-parts through the worst of 
life's al)yss. 

What plaudits from the next world 
after this, 
Couldst thou repeat a stroke and 
gain the sky ! 



And is it not the bitterer to think 
That, disengage our hands and thou 
wilt sink 



Although thy love was love in very 
deed ? 
I know that nature ! Pass a festive 

day. 
Thou dost not throw its relic-flower 
away, 
Nor bid its music's loitering echo 
speed, 

VII, 

Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie 

where it fell : 
If old things remain old things all is 

well, 
For thou art grateful as becomes 

man best : 
And hadst thou only heard me play 

one tune, 
Or viewed me from a window, not so 

soon 
With thee would such things fade 

as with the rest. 

vin. 
I seem to see ! We meet and part ; 

'tis brief : 
The book I opened keeps a folded 
leaf, 
The very chair I sat on, breaks the 
rank ; 
That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
Three lines, my face comes at so 
slight a call : 
And for all this, one little hour to 
thank ! 



But now, because the hour through 
years was fixed, 

Because our inmost beings met and 
mixed. 
Because thou once hast loved me — 
wilt thou darn 

Say to thy soul and Who may list be- 
side, 

"Therefore she is immortally my 
bride ; 
Chance cannot change my love, nor 
time impair. 



" So, what if in the dusk of life that's 

left, 
I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft, 
Look frcnn my path when, mimick- 
ing the same, 
, The fire-fly glimpses past me, come 
I and gone ? 



40 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 



That a man should strive and agonize, 

And taste a veriest hell on earth 
For the hoi^e of such a prize ! 

XLV. 

You might have turned and tried a 
man, 
Set him a space to weary and wear. 
And prove which suited more your 
plan, 
His best of hope or his worst de- 
spair, 
Yet end as he began. 

XL VI. 

But you spared me this, like the heart 
you are. 
And filled my empty heart at a 
word. 
If two lives join, there is oft a sear. 
They are one and one, with a shad- 
owy third; 
One near one is too far. 

XLVII. 

A moment after, and hands unseen 
Were hanging the night around us 
fast; 
But we knew that a bar was broken 
between 
Life and life: we were mixed at last 
In spite of the mortal screen. 

XL VIII. 

The forests had done it ; there they 
stood; 
"We caught for a moment the pow- 
ers at play : 
They had mingled us so, for once and 
good. 
Their work was done — we might 
go or stay, 
They relapsed to their ancient mood. 

XLIX. 

How the world is made for each of us ! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment's product 
thus, 

When a soul declares itself — to wit, 
By its fruit, the thing it does ! 



Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit, 
It forwards the general deed of 
man, 



And each of the Many helps to recruit 
The life of the race by a general 
plan ; 
Each living his own, to boot. 



I am named and known hj that mo- 
ment's feat ; 
There took my station and degree ; 
So grew my own small life com- 
plete. 
As nature obtained her best of me — 
One born to love you, sweet ! 



And to watch you sink by the fireside 
now 
Back again, as you mutely sit 
Musing by fire-light, that great brow 
And the spirit-small hand propping 
it. 
Yonder, my heart knows how ! 



LUI. 

So, earth has gained by one man the 
more. 
And the gain of earth must be 
heaven's gain too ; 
And the whole is well worth think- 
ing o'er 
When autumn comes : which I 
mean to do 
One day, as I said before. 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUS- 
BAND. 



My love, this is the bitterest, that 

thou — 
Who art all truth, and who dost love 

me now 
As thine eyes say, as thy voice 

breaks to saj' — 
Shouldst love so truly, and couldst 

love me still 
A whole long life through, had but 

love its will, 
Would death, that leads me from 

thee, brook delay. 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 



41 



I have but to he by thee, and thy hand 
Will never let mine go, nor heart 

withstand 
The beating of my heart to reach 

its place, 
"When shall I look for thee and feel 

thee gone ? 
When cry for the old comfort and 

find none ? 
Never, I know ! Th}' soul is in thy 

face. 

ni. 

Oh, I should fade — 'tis willed so! 
Might I save, 

Gladly I would, whatever beauty 
gave 
Joy to thy sense, for that was pre- 
cious too. 

It is not to be granted. But the soul 

Whence the iove comes, all ravage 
leaves that whole ; 
Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes 
all things new. 

IV. 

It would not be because my eye grew 

dim 
Thou couldst not find the love there, 

thanks to Him 
Who never is dishonored in the 

spark 
He gave us from his fire of fires, and 

bade 
Remember whence it sjirang, nor be 

afraid 
While that burns on, though all the 

rest grow dark. 

V. 

So, how thou wouldst be perfect, 
white and clean 

Outside as inside, soul and soul's de- 
mesne 
Alike, this body given to show it 
by ! 

Oh, three-parts through the worst of 
life's abyss, 

What plaudits from the next world 
after this, 
Couldst thou repeat a stroke and 
gain the sky ! 

VI. 

And is it not the bitterer to think 
That, disengage our hands and thou 
wilt sink 



Although thy love was love in very 
deed ? 
I know that nature ! Pass a festive 

day, 
Thou dost not throw its relic-flower 
away, 
Nor bid its music's loitering echo 
speed. 

VII. 

Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie 

where it fell ; 
If old things remain old things all is 

well. 
For thou art grateful as becomes 

man best : 
And hadst thou only heard me play 

one tune, 
Or viewed me from a window, not so 

soon 
With thee would such things fade 

as with the rest. 

vin. 
I seem to see ! We meet and part ; 

'tis brief ; 
The book I opened keeps a folded 
leaf, 
The very chair I sat on, breaks the 
rank ; 
That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
Three lines, my face comes at so 
slight a call : 
And for all this, one little hour to 
thank ! 



But now, because the hour through 
years was fixed. 

Because our inmost beings met and 
mixed, 
Because thou once hast loved me — 
wilt thou dare 

Say to thy soul and Who may list be- 
side, 

"Therefore she is immortally my 
bride ; 
Chance cannot change my love, nor 
time impair. 



" So, what if in the dusk of life that's 
left, 

I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft. 
Look from my path when, mimick- 
ing the same. 

The fire-fly glimpses past me, come 
and gone ? 



42 



ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 



— Where was it till the sunset ? where 
anon 
It will be at the sunrise ! What's 
to blame? " 



Is it so helpful to thee ? Canst thou 

take 
The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's 

sake, 
Put gently by such efforts at a beam? 
Is the remainder of the way so long, 
Thou need'st the little solace, thou 

the strong? 
Watch oTit thy watch, let weak ones 

doze and "dream. 



— Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it 

true," 
Thou'lt ask, " some eyes are beautiful 

and new? 
Some hair, — how can one choose 

but grasp such wealth ? 
And if a man would press his lips to 

lips 
Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup 

there slips 
The dewdrop out of, must it be by 

stealth ? 



*' It cannot change the love still kept 

for her, 
More than if such a picture I prefer 
Passing a day with, to a room's bare 

side : 
The painted form takes nothing she 

possessed. 
Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at 

rest, 
A man looks. Once more, what is 

there to chide?" 



xrv. 
So must I see, from where I sit and 

watch. 
My own self sell myself, mj hand 
attach 
Its warrant to the very thefts from 
me — 
Thy singleness of soul that made me 

proud, 
Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, 
Thy ma'n's-truth I was bold to bid 
God see ! 



XV. 

Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all 

thou canst 
Away to the new faces — disen- 

tranced, 
(Say it and think it) obdurate no 

more. 
Re-issue looks and words from the old 

mint, 
Pass them afresh, no matter whose 

the print. 
Image, and superscription once they 

bore ! 



Re-coin thyself, and give it them to 

spend, — 
It all comes to the same thing at the 

end. 
Since mine thou wast, mine art, 

and mine slialt be. 
Faithful or faithless : sealing up the 

sum 
Or lavish of my treasure, thou must 

come 
Back to the heart's place here I 

keep for thee ! 



xvn. 

Onlv, whv should it be with stain at 

all? 
Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of 

coronal. 
Put any kiss of pardon on thy 

brow? 
Why need the other women know so 

much, 
And talk together, " Such the look 

and such 
The smile he used to love with, then 

as now ! " 



xvin. 

Might I die last and show thee ! 

Should I find 
Such hardships in the few years left 

behind, 
If free to take and light my lamp, 

and go 
Into thv tomb, and shut the door and 

sit, 
Seeing thy face on those four sides of 

it 
The better that they are so blank, J 

know ! 



IN A YEAR. 



43 



XIX. 

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn 

o'er 
Within my raind each look, get more 

and more 
By heart each word, too much to 

learn at first ; 
And join thee all the fitter for the 

pause 
'Neath the low door-way's lintel 

That were cause 
For lingering, though thou calledst, 

if I durst ! 



And yet thou art the nobler of us 

two : 
What dare I dream of, that thou canst 

not do, 
Outstripping my ten small steps 

with one stride ? 
I'll say then, here's a trial and a 

task; 
Is it to bear? — if easy, I'll not 

ask : 
Though love fail, I can trust on in 

thy pride. 

XXI. 

Pride? — when those eyes forestall 

the life behind 
The death I have to go through! — 

when I find. 
Now that I want thy help most, all 

of thee ! 
What did I fear ? Thy love shall hold 

me fast 
Until the little minute's sleep is 

past 
And I wake saved. — And yet it 

will not be ! 



IN A YEAR. 



Never anv more. 

While I live, 
Need I hope to see his face 

As before. 
Once his love grown chill, 

Mine may strive : 
Bitterly we re-embrace, 

Single still. 



n. 

Was it something said. 

Something done. 
Vexed him? was it touch of hand, 

Turn of head ? 
Strange ! that very way 

Love begun : 
I as little understand 

Love's decay. 

III. 
When I sewed or drew, 

I recall 
How he looked as if I sung, 

— Sweetly too. 
If I spoke a word, 

First of all 
Up his cheek the color sprung, 

Then he heard. 



IV. 

Sitting by my side, 

At "my feet. 
So he breathed but air I breathed. 

Satisfied ! 
I, too, at love's brim 

Touched the sweet : 
I would die if death bequeathed 

Sweet to him. 



" Speak, I love thee best ! " 

He exclaimed : 
" Let thy love ray own foretell ! " 

I confessed : 
" Clasp my heart on thine 

Now unblamed, 
Since upon thy soul as well 

Hangeth mine 1 " 



Was it wrong to own, 

Being truth ? 
Why should all the giving prove 

His alone ? 
I had wealth and ease, 

Beauty, youth : 
Since ray lover gave me love, 

I gave these 



That was all I meant, 

— To be just. 
And the passion I had raised, 

To content. 



44 



SONG FROM 'JAMES LEE: 



Since he chose to change 


If you loved only what were worth 


Gold for dnst, 


your love. 


If I gave him what he praised 


Love were clear gain, and wholly well 


AVas it strange ? 


for you. 




Make the low nature better by your 


vni. 


throes ! 


Would he loved me yet, 


Give earth yourself, go up for gain 


On and on, 


above ! 


"While I found some way undreamed 




— Paid my debt ! 




Gave more life and more. 




Till all gone, 




He should smile " She never seemed 
Mine before. 


A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 


IX. 

" What, she felt the while. 


I. 

Let's contend no more, Love, 


Must I think ? 


Strive nor weep : 


Love's so different with us men ! " 


All be as before, Love, 


He should smile : 


— Only sleep ! 


" Dying for my sake — 




White and pink ! 


II. 


Can't we touch these bubbles then 


What so wild as words are ? 


But they break ? " 


I and thou 




In debate, as birds are, 


X. 


Hawk on bough ! 


Dear, the pang is brief, 




Do thy part, 


III. 


Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed 


See the creature stalking 


Grows belief ! 


AVhile we speak ! 


Well, this cold clay clod 


Hush and hide the talking, 


Was man's heart : 


Cheek on cheek. 


Crumble it, and what comes next? 




Is it God ? 


IV. 




What so false as truth is. 




False to thee ? 






Where the serpent's tooth is. 


SONG FROM "JAMES LEE." 


Shun the tree — 


I. 

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown 


V. 

Where the apple reddens. 


old earth, 


Never pry — 


This autumn morning ! How he 


Lest we lose our Edens, 


sets his bones 


Eve and I. 


To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out 




knees and feet 


VI. 


For the ripple to run over in its mirth : 


Be a god, and hold me 


Listening the while, where on the 


heap of stones 
The white breast of the sea-lark twit- 


With a charm ! 
Be a man, and fold me 


ters sweet. 


With thine arm ! 


II. 


VII, 


That is the doctrine, sin^jile, ancient, 


Teach me, only teach, Love 1 


true ; 


As I ought 


Such is life's trial, as old earth 


I will speak thv speech, Love, 


smiles and knows. 


Think thy thought — 



WOMEN AND HOSES. 



45 



Meet, if tliou require it, 

Botli demamls. 
Laying riesh and siiirit 
' lu thy hands. 

IX. 

That shall be tomorrow, 

Not to-night : 
I must bury sorrow 

Out of sight : 



— Must a little weep, Lovej 

(Foolish ine I) 
And so fall asleep, Love, 

Loved by thee. 



MEETING AT XIGHT. 



The gray sea and the long black laud ; 
And the" yellow half-moon large and 

low ; 
And the startled little waves that 

leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain The cove ^vith pushing prow, 
And quench its speed i' the slushy 

sand. 

II. 
Then a mile of warm sea-scented 

beach : 
Three fields to cross till a farm ap- 
pears : 
A tap at the pane, the quick sliarp 

scratch 
And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
And a voice less loud, through joys 

and fears, 
Than the two hearts beating each to 

each ! 



WOMEX AND ROSES. 

I. 
I DREAii of a red-rose tree. 
And which of its roses three 
Is the dearest rose to me ? 



Kound and round, like a dance of 

snow 
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, 

go 
Floating the women faded for ages, 
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's 

pages. 
Then follow women fresh and gay. 
Living and loving and loved to-day. 
Last, in the rear, tlee the multitude 

of maidens, 
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one 

cadence, 
They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

III. 
Dear rose, thy term is reached, 
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : 
Bees pass it unimj)eached. 

rv. 

Stay, then, stoop, since I cannot 
climb, 

You, great shapes of the antique time, 

How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze 
you, 

Break' mv heart at vour feet to please 
yoii ? 

Oh, to possess and be possessed ! 

Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid 
breast ! 

Once but of love, the poesy, the pas- 
sion. 

Drink but once and die !— In vain, 
the same fashion, 

They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 



V. 

PARTING AT MORNING. g^^ ^^^^- ^^^-^ J°^.'-^ undimmed 

Thv cup IS rubv-riujnied. 

R0L->-D the cape of a sudden came the '^^'^' ^"P''^ ^^^'' nectai-brimmed. 

sea. 
And the sun looked over the raoun- "^• 

tains rim : Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth 

And straight was a path of gold for The bee sucked in by the hyatinth, 

him, I So will I bury me while burning, 

And the need of a world of men for Quench like him at a plunge my 

me. I yeaiuing, 



46 



MISCONCEPTIONS. 



Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips ! 
Fold me^fast where the cincture slips, 
Prison all my soul in eternities of 

pleasure, 
Girdle me for once! But no — the 

old measure, 
Tbey circle their rose on my rose-tree. 

VTI. 

Dear rose without a thorn, 
Thy bud's the babe unborn : 
First streak of a new morn. 



"Wings, lend wings for the cold, the 
clear ! 

What is far conquers what is near. 

Roses will bloom nor want behold- 
ers, 

Sprung from the dust where our flesh 
moulders. 

"What shall arrive with the cycle's 
change ? 

A novel grace and a beauty strange. 

I will make an Eve, be the Artist that 
began her, 

Shaped iier to his mind ! — Alas ! in 
like manner 

They circle their rose on my rose-tree. 



MISCONCEPTIONS. 



This is a spray the bird clung to, 

Making it blossom with pleasure, 

Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 

Fit for her nest and her treasure. 

Oh, what a hope beyond measure 

"Was the poor spray's, which the fl}'- 

ing feet hung to, — 
So to be singled oiit, built in, and sung 
to! 

IT. 

That is a heart the queen leant on, 

Thrilled in a minute erratic. 
Ere the true bosom she bent on, 
Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
"Was the poor heart's, ere the wan- 
derer went on, — 
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, 
spent on 1 



A PRETTY WOMAN. 



That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, 

And the blue eye 

Dear and dewy. 
And that infantine fresh air of hers ! 



II. 
To think men cannot take you, Sweet, 
And infold you. 
Ay, and hold you, 
And so keep you what they make 
you, Sweet ! 



You like us for a glance, you know — 

For a word's sake 

Or a sword's sake : 
All's the same, whate'er the chance, 
you know. 

IV. 

And in turn we make you ours, we 
say — 
You and youth too, 
Eyes and mouth too, 
All the face composed of flowers, we 
say. 

V. 

All's our own, to make the most of, 
Sweet — 

Sing and say for, 

"Watch and "pray for. 
Keep a secret or go boast of. Sweet ! 

VI. 

But for loving, why, you would not, 
Sweet, 
Though we pr-ayed you, 
Paid you, brayed you 
In a mortar — for you could not, 
Sweet ! 

VII. 

So, we leave the sweet face fondly 
there : 
Be its beauty 
Its sole duty ! 
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie 
there ! 

vin. 
And while the face lies quiet there, 
"Who shall wonder 
That I ponder 
A conclusion ? I will try it there. 



A LIGHT WOMAN. 



47 



IX, 

As, — why must one, for the love fore- 
gone, 
Scout mere liking? 
T h u n (1 e 1--S t r i Iv i n g 
Earth, — the heaven, we looked ahove 
for, gone ! 



Why, witli beauty, needs there 
money be, 

Love with liking? 

Crush the fly-king 
In his gauze, because no honey-bee ? 



May not liking be so simple-sweet, 

If love grew there 

'Twould undo there 
All that breaks the cheek to dimples 
sweet ? 



Is the creature too imperfect, say ? 

Would you mend it, 

And so end it? 
Since not all addition perfects aye ! 

XIII. 

Or is it of its kind, perhaps. 

Just perfection — 

Whence, rejection 
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? 

XIV. 

Shall we burn up, tread that face at 
once 
Into tinder, 
And so hinder 
Sparks from kindling all the place at 
once? 

XV. 

Or else kiss away one's soul on her ? 

Your love fancies ! 

— A sick man sees 
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her ! 



Thus the craftsman thinks to grace 
the rose, — 

Plucks a mould-fiower 

For his gold flower. 
Uses fine things that efface the rose : 



XVII. 

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, 

Precious metals 

Ape the petals, — 
Last, some old king locks it up, mo- 
rose ! 

XVIII. 

Then how grace a rose ? I know a 
way ! 
Leave it, rather. 
Must you gather ? 
Smell, kiss, wear it — at last, throw 
away ! 



A LIGHT WOMA]^. 



So far as our story approaches the end. 
Which do you pity the most of us 
three? — 
My friend, or the mistress of my 
friend 
With her wanton eyes, or me ? 



My friend was already too good to lose. 
And seemed in the way of improve- 
ment yet, 
When she crossed his path with her 
hunting-noose. 
And over him drew her net. 



When I saw him tangled in her toils, 
A shame, said I, if she adds just 
him 

To her nine and ninety other spoils, 
The hundredth for a whim 1 



And before my friend be wholly hers, 
How easy to jirove to him, I said, 

An eagle's the game her pride pre- 
fers. 
Though she snaps at a wren instead ! 



So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to 
take, 
My hand sought hers as in earnest 
need, 
And round she turned for my noble 
sake, 
And gave me herself indeed. 



48 



LOVE IN A LIFE. 



The eagle am I, with my fame in the 
worhl, 
The wren is he, with his maiden 
face. 
— You look away and your lip is 
curled ? 
Patience, a moment's space ! 



For see, my friend goes shaking and 
white ; 
He eyes ixie as the basilisk : 
I have turned, it appears, his day to 
night, 
Eclipsing his sun's disk. 



And I did it, he thinks, as a very 
thief : 
" Though I love her — that, he com- 
prehends — 
One should master one's passions 
(love, in chief). 
And he loyal to one's friends ! " 



And she, — she lies in my hand as 
tame 

As a pear late basking over a wall ; 
Just a touch to try, and off it came ; 

'Tis mine, — can I let it fall ? 



X. 

With no mind to eat it, that's the 
worst ! 
"Were it thrown in the road, would 
the case assist ? 
'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' 
thirst 
When I gave its stalk a twist. 

xr. 
And I, — what I seem to my friend, 
you see ; 
What I soon shall seem to his love, 
you guess : 
What I seem to mvself , do vou ask of 
me? 
No hero, I confess. 

xir. 
'Tis an awkward thing to play with 
souls. 
And matter enough to save one's 
own : 



Yet think of my friend, and the burn- 
ing coals 
He played with for bits of stone ! 



XIII. 

One likes to show the truth for the 
truth ; 
That the woman was light is very 
true : 
But suppose she says, — Never mind 
that youth ! 
What wrong have I done to you ? 



Well, anyhow, here the story stays, 
So far at least as I understand : 

And, Robert Browning, you writer of 
plays, 
Here's a subject made to your hand ! 



LOVE IX A LIFE. 



Room after room , 

I hunt the house through 

We inhabit together. 

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou 
Shalt find her — 

Next time, herself ! —not the trouble 
behind her 

Left in the curtain, the couch's per- 
fume ! 

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath 
blossomed anew : 

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the 
wave of her feather. 



Yet the day wears. 

And door succeeds door ; 

I try the fresh fortune — 

Range the wide house from the wing 

to the centre. 
Still the same chance ! she goes out as 

I enter. 
Spend my whole daj- in the quest, — 

who (>ares ? 
But 'tis twilight, you see, — with such 

suites to explore, 
Such closets to search, such alcoves 

to importune ! 



TriE LABORATORY. 



49 



LIFE IX A LOVE. 

Escape me ? 

Never — 

Beloved ! 

While I am I, and yoii are yon, 

So long as the world contains us hoth, 

Me tTie loving and you the loth, 
While the one eludes, must the other 

pursue. 
My life is a fault at last, I fear : 
it seems too much like a fate, in- 
deed ! 
Though I do my best I shall scarce 
succeed. 
But what if I fail of ray purpose here? 
It is but to keep the nerves at strain. 
To dry one's eyes and laugh at a 
fall. 
And bafiied, get up and begin again, — 
So the chase takes up one's life, 
that's all. 
While, look but once from your far- 
thest bound 
At me so deep in the dust and dark, 
No sooner the old hope goes to ground 
Than anew one, straight to the self- 
same mark, 
I shape me — 
Ever 
Removed ! 



THE LABORATORY 

ANCIEN REGIME. 



Now that I, tying thy glass mask 

tightly, 
May gaze throngh these faint smokes 

curling whitely, 
As thou pliest thy trade in this devil 's- 

smithy — 
Which is the poison to poison lier, 

prithee ? 

IT. 

He is with her, and they know that I 

know 
Where they are, what they do : they 

believe my tears flow 
While they laugh, laugh at me, at me 

fled to the drear 
Empty church, to pray God in, for 

them ! — I am here. 



Grind away, moisten and mash up 

thy paste. 
Pound at thv powder, — I am not in 

haste ! 
Better sit thus and observe thy 

strange things. 
Than go where men wait me, and 

dance at the King's. 



That in the mortar — you call it a 
gum ? 

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold 
oozings come ! 

And yonder soft vial, the exquisite 
blue. 

Sure to taste sweetly, — is that poison 
too? 

v. 

Had I but all of them, thee and thy 
treasures. 

What a wild crowd of invisible pleas- 
ures ! 

To carry pure death in an earring, a 
casket, 

A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree bas- 
ket ! 

VI. 

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge 

to give, 
And Pauline should have just thirty 

minutes to live ! 
But to light a pastile, and Elise with 

her head 
And her bi-east and her arms and her 

hands, should drop dead ! 



Quick— is it finished? The color's 

too grim ! 
Why not soft like the vial's, enticing 

and dim ? 
Let it brighten her drink, let her turn 

it and stir. 
And try it and taste, ere she fix and 

prefer ! 



What a drop ! She's not little, no 

minion like me ! 
That's why she insnared him: this 

never will free 
The soul from those masculine eyes, 

— say, " No ! " 
To that pulse's magnificent come and 

go- 



50 



GOLD II A IE. 



For only last night, as they whispered, 

I brought 
My own eyes to bear on her so, that 

I thought 
Conld I keep them one-half minute 

fixed, she would fall 
Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does 

it all ! 



Not that I bid yon spare her the pain , 
Let death be felt and the jDroof re- 
main : 
Brand, burn up, bite into its grace — 
He is sure to remember her dying 
face ! 

XI, 

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, 
be not morose ; 

It kills her, and this prevents seeing 
it close : 

The delicate droplet, my whole for- 
tune's fee ! 

If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt 
me? 

XII. 

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold 

to your fill, 
You may kiss me, old man, on my 

mouth if you will ! 
But brush this dust off me, lest horror 

it brings 
Ere I know it — next moment I dance 

at the King's ! 



GOLD HAIR: 

A STORY OF PORXIC. 



Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, 
Who lived at Poruic down by the 
sea. 
Just where the sea and the Loire 
unite I 
And a boasted name in Brittany 
She bore, which I will not write. 



Too white, for the flower of life is 
red ; 
Her flesh was the soft seraphic 
screen 



Of a soul that is meant (her parents 
said) 
To just see earth, and hardly be 
seen. 
And blossom in heaven instead. 



Yet earth saw one thing, one how 
fair ! 
One grace that grew to its full on 
earth : 
Smiles might be sparse on her c"heek 
so spare. 
And her waist want half a girdle's 
girth, 
But she had her great gold hair. 



Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, 
Freshness and fragrance — floods of 
it, too ! 
Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere 
di'oss : 
Here, Life smiled, " Think what I 
meant to do ! " 
And Love sighed, " Fancy my loss ! " 



So, when she died, it was scarce more 
strange 
Than that, when some delicate 
evening dies, 
And you follow its spent sun's pallid 
range. 
There's a shoot of color startles the 
skies 
With sudden, violent change,— 



VI. 

That, while the breath was nearly to 
seek. 
As they put the little cross to her 
lips. 
She changed ; a spot came out on her 
cheek, 
A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, 
And she broke forth," I must speak ! 



■' Not my hair ! " made the girl her 
moan — 
■' All the rest is gone or to go ; 
But the last, last grace, my all, my 
own, 
Let it stay in the grave, that the 
ghosts may know | 
Leave my poor gold hair alone 1 " 



GOLD HAIR. 



51 



The passion thus vented, dead lay she: 
Her parents sobbed their worst on 
that. 
All friends joined in, nor observed 
dej?ree : 
For indeed the hair was to wonder 
at, 
As it spread — not flowing free, 



But curled around her brow, like a 
crown, 
And coiled beside her cheeks, like a 
cap, 
And calmed about her neck — ay, 
down 
To her breast, pressed flat, without 
a gap 
I' the gold, it reached her gown. 



All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 
'Mid the yellow wealth, nor dis- 
turbed its hair : 
E'en the priest allowed death's privi- 
lege, 
As he planted the crucifix with care 
On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. 



And thus was she buried, inviolate 
Of body and soul, in the very space 

By the altar ; keei)ing saintly state 
In Pornic church, for her pride of 
race, 

Pure life and piteous fate. 



And in after-time would j'our fresh 
tear fall. 
Though your month might twitch 
with a dubious smile. 
As they told you of gold both robe 
and pall. 
How she prayed them leave it alone 
a while, 
So it never was touched at all. 



Years flew ; this legend grew at last 
The life of the lady; all she had 
done, 
All been, in the memories fading fast 
Of lover and friend, was summed in 
one 
Sentence survivors passed : 



XIV. 

To wit, she was meant for heaven, 
not earth ; 
Had turned an angel before the 
time : 
Yet, since she was mortal, in such 
dearth 
Of frailty, all you could count a 
crime 
Was — she knew her gold hair's worth. 



At little pleasant Pornic church, 
It chanced, the pavement wanted 
repair, 

Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, 
A certain sacred spat^e lay bare, 

And the boys began research. 

XVI. 

'Twas the space where our sires would 
lay a saint, 
A benefactor, — a bishop, suppose, 
A baron with armor-adornments 
quaint. 
Dame with chased ring and jewelled 
rose, 
Things sanctity saves from taint ; 

XVII. 

So we come to find them in after-days 
When the corpse is presumed to 
have done with gauds 
Of use to the living, in Tnany ways : 
For the boys get pelf, and thetown 
applauds. 
And the church deserves the praise. 

XVIII. 

They grubbed with a will : and at 
length — cor 
Humamnn, pectora caeca, and the 
rest ! — 
They found — no gaud they were pry- 
ing for. 
No ring, no rose, but — who would 
have guessed ? — 
A double Louis-d'or ! 



Here was a case for the priest : he 
heard. 
Marked, inwardly digested, laid 



Finger on nose, smiled, " A little bird 
Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring 
a spade. 
Dig deeper ! " — he gave the word. 



And lo, when they came to the coflan- 
lid, 
Or rotten planks which composed it 
once. 
Why, tlieie lay the girl's skull wedged 
amid 
A mint of monej^ it served for the 
nonce 
To hold in its hair-heaps hid ! 



Hid there? Why? Could the girl 

be wont 
(She the stainless soul) to treasure 
up 
Monev, earth's trash and heaven's 
affront. ? 
Had a spider found out the com- 
munion-cup, 
Was a toad in the christening-font ? 



XXII. 

Truth is truth : too true it was. 
Gold ! She hoarded and hugged it 
first, 
Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it 
— alas — 
Till the humor grew to a head and 
burst, 
And she cried, at the final pass, — 



" Talk not of God, my heart is stone ! 
Nor lover nor friend — be gold for 
both ! 
Gold I lack ; and, my all, my own, 
It shall hide in my hair. I scarce 
die loth 
If they let my hair alone ! " 



XX rv. 

Louis-d'ors, some six times five, 
And duly double, every piece. 
Now, do you see ? With the priest to 
shrive, 
With parents preventing her soul's 
release 
By kisses that kept alive, — 



XXV. 

With heaven's gold gates about to 
ope, 
With friends' praise, gold-like, lin- 
gering still. 
An instinct had bidden the girl's hanl 
grope 
For gold, the true sort — "Gold in 
heaven, if you will ; 
But I keep earth's too, I hope." 



Enough ! The priest took the grave's 
grim yield : 
The parents, they eyed that price of 
sin 
As if ihirty pieces lay revealed 

On the place to bury strangers in. 
The hideous Potter's' Field. 

xxvir. 
But the priest bethought him : 
"'Milk that's spilt' 
— You know the adage ! Watch 
and pray ! 
Saints tumble to earth with so slight a 
tilt! 
It would build a new altar; that, 
we may ! " 
And the altar therewith was built. 

xxvrii. 
Why I deliver this horrible verse ? 
As the text of a sermon, which now 
I preach. 
Evil or good may be better or worse 
In the human heart, but the mix- 
ture of each 
Is a marvel and a curse. 

XXIX. 

The candid incline to surmise of late 
That the Christian faith may be 
false, I find ; 

For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate 
Begins to tell on the public mind, 

And Colenso's words have weight : 



XXX. 

I still, to suppose it true, for my part. 
See reasons and reasons ; this, to 
begin : 
'Tis the faith that launched point- 
blank her dart 
At the head of a lie — taught Origi- 
nal Sin, 
The Corruption of Man's Heart. 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



53 



THE STATUE AND THE 
BUST. 

There's a palace in Florence, the 
world knows well, 

And a statue watches it from the 
square, 

And this story of both do our towns- 
men tell. 

Ages di^o, a lady there, 
At the farthest window facing the East 
Asked, " Who rides by with the royal 
air?" 

The bridesmaids' prattle around her 

ceased ; 
She leaned forth, one on either hand : 
They saw how the blush of the bride 

increased — 

They felt by its beats her heart ex- 
pand — 

As one at each ear and both in a 
breath 

Whispered, " The Great Duke Fer- 
dinand." 

That selfsame instant, underneath. 
The Duke rode past in his idle way, 
Empty and fine, like a swordless 
sheath. 

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. 
Till he threw his head back — "Who 

is she ?" 
— "A bride the Riccardi brings home 

to-da}'." 

Hair in heaps lay heavily 
Over a pale brow spirit-pnre — 
Carved like the heart of the coal- 
black tree, 

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure — 
And vainly sought to dissemble her 

eyes 
Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise 
Filled the fine empty sheath of a 

man, — 
The Duke grew straightway brave 

and wise. 

He looked at her, as a lover can 
She looked at him, as one who awakes: 
The past was a sleep, and her life 
began. 



Now, love so ordered for both their 

sakes, 
A feast was held, that selfsame night. 
In the pile which the mighty shadow 

makes. 

(For Via Larga is three-parts light. 
But the palace overshadows one. 
Because of a crime which may God 

requite ! 

To Florence and God the wrong was 

done. 
Through the first republic's murder 

there 
By Cosimo and his cursed son.) 

The Duke (with the statue's face in 
the square) 

Turned, in the midst of his multi- 
tude, 

At the bright approach of the bridal 
pair. 

Face to face the lovers stood 
A single minute and no more. 
While the bridegroom bent as a man 
subdued — 

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the 
floor — 

For the Duke on the lad\^ a kiss con- 
ferred, 

As the courtly custom was of yore. 

In a minute can lovers exchange a 

word ? 
If a word did pass, which I do not 

think. 
Only one out of the thousand heard. 

That was the bridegroom. At day's 

brink 
He and his bride were alone at last 
In a bed chamber by a taper's blink. 

Calmly he said that her lot was cast. 
That the door she had passed was 

shut on her 
Till the final catafalque repassed. 

The world meanwhile, its noise and 

stir, 
Through a certain window facing the 

East, 
She could watch like a convent's 

chronicler. 



54 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



Since passing the door might lead to 

a feast, 
And a feast might lead to so much 

beside, 
He, of many evils, chose the least. 

" Freely T choose too," said the bride — 
" Your window and its world suffice," 
Replied the tongue, while the heart 
replied — 

" If I spend the night with that devil 

twice, 
May his window serve as my loop of 

hell 
"Whence a damned soul looks on 

paradise ! 

*' I fly to the Duke who loves me well. 
Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow 
Ere i count another ave-bell. 

*' 'T is only the coat of a page to bor- 
row, 
And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, 
And I save my soul — but not to-mor- 
row " — 

(She checked herself and her eye 

grew dim) 
" My father tarries to bless my state : 
I must keep it one day more for 

him, 

" Is one day more so long to wait ? 
Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; 
AVe shall see each other, sure as fate." 

She turned on her side and slept. 

Just so ! 
So we resolve on a thing, and sleep : 
So did the lady, ages ago. 

That night the Duke said, "Dear or 

cheap 
As the cost of this cup of bliss may 

prove 
To body or soul, I will drain it deep." 

And on the morrow, bold with love, 
He beckoned the bridegroom (close on 

call. 
As his duty bade, by the Duke's al- 
cove) 

And smiled, " 'Twas a very funeral. 
Your lady will think, this feast of 

ours, — 
A shame to efface, whate'er befall 1 



"What if we break from the Arno 

bowers. 
And try if Petraja, cool and green, 
Cure last night's fault with this morn- 
ing's flowers ? " 

The bridegroom, not a thought to be 

seen 
On his stead}' brow and quiet mouth, 
Said, " Too "^ much favor for me so 



" But, alas! my lady leaves the South; 
Each wind that comes from the Apen- 

nine 
Is a menace to her tender youth : 

" Nor a way exists, the wise opine, 
If she quits her palace twice tliis 

3-ear, 
To avert the flower of life's decline." 

Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kind- 
ly fear. 
Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: 
Be our feast to-night as usual here! " 

And then to himself — " Which night 

sliall bring 
Thv bride to her lover's embraces, 

fool — 
Or I am the fool, and thou art the 

king ! 

"Yet my passion must wait a night, 

nor cool — 
For to-night the envoy arrives from 

France 
Whose heart I unlock with th3'self, 

my tool. 

" I need thee still and might miss per- 
chance. 
To-day is not wholly lost, beside. 
With "^its hope of iny lady's counte- 
nance : 

"For I ride — what should I do but 

ride ? 
And, passing her palace, if I list. 
May glance at its window — well be- 
tide ! " 

So said, so done: nor the lady missed 
One ray that broke from the ardent 

brow. 
Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit 

kissed. 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



55 



Be sure that each renewed the vow, 

No morrow's sun should arise and set 
And leave them then as it left them 
now. 

But next day passed, and next daj' yet, 
With still fresh cause to wait one day 

more 
Ere each leaped over the parapet. 

And still , as love's brief morning wore, 
AVith a gentle start, half smile, half 

sigh, 
They found love not as it seemed be- 
fore. 

They tliought it would work infalli- 
bly, 

But not in despite of heaven and 
eartli : 

The rose would blow when the storm 
passed by. 

Meantime they could profit, in win- 
ter's dearth, 

B3' store of fruits that supplant the 
r(jse : 

The world and its ways have a certain 
worth : 

And to press a point while these op- 
pose 
AVere simple policy; better wait : 
We lose no friends and we gain no 
foes. 

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's 

fate, 
Who daily may ride and pass and look 
Where his lady watches behind the 

grate ! 

And she — she watched the square 

like a book 
Holding one jiicture and only one. 
Which daily to find she undertook : 

When the picture was reached the 

book was done, 
And she turned from the picture at 

night to scheme 
Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 

So weeks grew months, years; gleam 

by gleam 
The glory dropped from their youth 

and love, 
And both perceived they had dreamed 

a dream ; 



Which hovered as dreams do, still 
above : 

But who can take a dream for a truth ? 

Oh, hide our eyes from the next re- 
move ! 

One day as the lady saw her youth 
Depart, and the silver thread that 

streaked 
Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's 

tooth, 

The brow so puckered, the chin so 

peaked, — 
And wondered who the woman was, 
Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked 

Fronting her silent in the glass — 
" Summon here," she suddenly said, 
" Before the rest of my old self pass, 

" Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, 
Who fasliions the clay no love will 

change, 
And fixes a beauty never to fade. 

" Let Ivobbia's craft so apt and strange 
Arrest the remains of young and fair, 
And rivet them while the seasons 
range. 

"Make me a face on the window 

there, 
Waiting as ever, mute the while, 
My love to pass below in the square ! 

" And let me think that it may beguile 
Dreary days which the dead must 

spend 
Down in their darkness under the 

aisle, 

" To say, ' What matters it at the end ? 
I did no more while my heart was 

warm 
Than does that image, my pale-faced 

friend.' 

" Where is the use of the lip's red 

charm. 
The heaven of hair, the pride of the 

brow. 
And the blood that blues the inside 

arm — 

" Unless we turn, as the soul knows 

how. 
The earthly gift to an end divine ? 
A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 



56 



THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 



But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine 
AVitli llowers and fruits wliich leaves 

inlace, 
Was set where now is the empty 

shrine — 

(And, leaning out of a bright blue 

space, 
As a ghost might lean from a chink of 

sk3% 
The passionate pale lady's face — 

Eying ever, with earnest eye 
And quick-turned neck at its breath- 
less stretch, 
Some one who ever is passing by — ) 

The Duke had sighed like the simplest 

M'retch 
In Florence, "Youth — my dream 

escapes ! 
Will its record stay ! " And he bade 

them fetch 

Some subtle moulder of brazen 

si 1 apes — 
" Can the soul, the will, die out of a 

man 
Ere his body finds the grave that 

gapes ? 

** John of Douay shall effect my plan, 
Set me on horseback here aloft. 
Alive, as the crafty scul^Dtor can, 

" In the very square I have crossed so 

oft: 
That men may admire, when future 

suns 
Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, 

" While the mouth and the brow stay 

brave in bronze — 
Admire and say, ' When he was alive 
How he would take his pleasure 

once ! ' 

" And it shall go hard but I contrive 
To listen the while, and laugh in my 

tomb 
At idleness which aspires to strive." 



So ! While these wait the trump of 

doom. 
How do their spirits pass, I wonder, 
Nights and days in the narrow room ? 



Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder 
What a gift life was, ages ago. 
Six steps out of the chapel yonder. 

Only they see not God, I know, 

Nor all that chivalry of his, 

The soldier-saints who, row on row, 

Burn upward each to his point of 
bliss — 

Since, the end of life being mani- 
fest. 

He had burned his way through the 
world to this. 

I hear you reproach, " But delaj^ was 

best, 
For their end was a crime." — Oh! 

a crime will do 
As well, I reply, to serve for a test, 

As a virtue golden through and 

through. 
Sufficient to a indicate itself 
And prove its worth at a moment's 

view ! 

Must a game be played for the sake of 
pelf? 

Where a button goes, 'twere an epi- 
gram 

To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. 

The true has no value beyond the 
sham : 

As well the counter as coin, I sub- 
mit. 

When your table's a hat, and j'our 
prize, a dram. 

Stake your counter as boldly every 
whit, 

Venture as warily, use the same 
skill, 

Do your best, whether winning or los- 
ing it, 

If you choose to play ! — is my princi- 
ple. 
Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life's set x^rize, be it what it 
will ! 

The counter, our lovers staked, was 

lost 
As surely as if it were lawful coin : 
And the sin I impute to each frustrate 

ghost 



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 



57 



Is, the nnlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 


Every vestige of the city, guessed 


Though the end in sight was a vice, I 


alone. 


say. 


Stock or stone — 


You of the A'irtue (we issue join) 


Where a multitude of men breathed 


How strive you ? De te, fabula ! 


joy and woe 




Long ago ; 




Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, 




dread of shame 




Struck them tame ; 


LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 


And that glory and that shame alike, 




the gold 


I. 


Bought and sold. 


Where the quiet-colored end of even- 




ing smiles. 


IV. 


Miles and miles. 


Now, — the single little turret that 


On the solitary jmstures where our 


remains 


sheep 


On the plains. 


Half-asleep 


By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 


Tinkle homeward through the twi- 


Overscored, 


light, stray or stop 


While the patching houseleek's head 


As they crop — 


of blossom winks 


Was the site once of a city great and 


Through the chinks — 


gay 


Marks the basement whence a tower 


(So they say), 


in ancient time 


Of our country's very capital, its 


Sj>rang sublime, 


prince, 


And a burning ring, all round, the 


Ages since, 


chariots traced 


Held his court in, gathered councils. 


As they raced. 


wielding far 


And the monarch and his minions 


Peace or war. 


and his dames 


II. 
Now, — the country does not even 


Viewed the games. 


V. 


boast a tree. 


And I know — while thus the quiet- 


As you see, 


colored eve 


To distinguish slopes of verdure, cer- 


Smiles to leaA^e 


tain rills 


To their folding, all our many tink- 


From the hills 


ling Heece 


Intersect and give a name to (else 


In such peace. 


they run 


And the slopes and rills in undistin- 


Into one). 


guished gray 


Where the domed and daring palace 


Melt away — 


shot its spires 


That a girl with eager eyes and yellow 


Up like fires 


hair 


O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a 


Waits me there 


wall 


In the turret whence the charioteers 


Bounding all. 


caught soul 


Made of marble, men might march on 


For the goal. 


nor be pressed, 


When the king looked, where she 


Twelve abreast. 


looks now, breathless, dumb 


III. 
And such plenty and perfection, see, 


Till I come. 


VT. 


of grass 


But he looked upon the city, every side, 


Never was ! 


Far and wide, 


Such a carpet as, this summer-time, 


All the mountains topped with tem- 


o'er-spreads 


ples, all the glades 


And embeds 


Colonnades, 



58 



TIME'S REVENGES. 



All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, 
— and then, 
All the men ! 
When I do come, she will speak not, 
she will stand, 
Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the 
first embrace 
Of my face. 
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight 
and speech 
Each on each. 



In one year they sent a million fight- 
ers forth 
South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen 
pillar high 
As the sky, 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in 
full force — 
Gold, of course. 
O heart ! O blood that freezes, blood 
that bvirns ! 
Earth's returns 
For whole centuries of folly, noise and 
sin ! 

Shut them in, 
With their triumphs and their glories 
and the rest ! 
Love is best. 



TIME'S REVENGES. 

I've a Friend, over the sea ; 

I like him, but he loves me. 

It all grew out of the books I write ; 

They find such favor in his sight 

That he slaughters you with savage 
looks 

Because you don't admire my books. 

He does himself though, — and if some 
vein 

Were to snap to-night in this heavy 
brain, 

To-morrow month, if I lived to try, 

Kound should I just turn quietly. 

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my 
hand 

Till I found him, come from his for- 
eign land 

To be my nurse in this poor place, 

And make my broth and wash my 
face 



And light my fire and, all the while, 
Bear with his old good-humored 

smile 
That I told him " Better have kept 

away 
Thau come and kill me, night and 

day. 
With, worse than fever throbs and 

shoots. 
The creaking of his clumsy boots." 
I am as sure that this he would do, 
As that Saint Paul's is striking two. 
And I think I rather . . . woe is me ! 

— Yes, rather should see Mm than 

not see, 
If lifting a hand would seat him there 
Before me in the empty chair 
To-night, when my head aches indeed, 
And I can neither think nor read, 
Nor make these purple fingers hold 
The pen : this garret's freezing cold ! 

And I've a Lady — there he wakes 
The laughing fiend and prince of 

snakes 
Within me, at her name, to pray 
Fate send some creature in the way 
Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 
Upthrust and outward-borne. 
So I might prove myself that sea 
Of passion which I needs must be ! 
Call my thoughts false and my fancies 

quaint. 
And my style infirm and its figures 

faint, 
All the critics say, and more blame 

yet. 
And not one angry word you get. 
But, please you, wonder I would put 
My cheek beneath that lady's foot 
Rather than trample under mine 
The laurels of the Florentine, 
And you shall see how the Devil 

spends 
A fire God gave for other ends ! 
I tell you, I stride up and down 
This garret, crowned with love's best 

crown, 
And feasted with love's perfect feast, 
To think I kill for her, at least, 
Body and soul and peace and fame, 
Alike youth's end and manhood's 

aim, 

— So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, 
Filled full, eaten out and in 

With the face of her, the e^^es of her, 

The lips, the little chin, the stir 

Of shadow round her mouth; and she 

— I'll tell you, — calmly would decree 



WARING. 



59 



That I should roast at a slow fire, 
If that would ooiupass her desire 
Arid make her one whom they invite 
To the famous ball to-morrow night. 

There may be heaven ; there must be 

hell ; 
Meantime, there is our earth here — 

well ! 



WARIXG. 
I. 



"What's become of Waring 
Since he j^ave us all the slip, 
Chose land-travel or seafarinj?, 
Boots and chest or staff and scrip, 
Rather than pace up and down 
Any longer London town ? 



"Who'd have guessed it from his lip 
Or his brow's accustomed bearing, 
Oil the night he thus took ship 
Or started landward ? — little caring 
For us, it seems, who supped together 
(Friends of his too, I remember) 
And walked home through the merry 

weather 
The snowiest in all December. 
I left his arm that night myself 
For what's-his-name's, the new prose- 
poet 
Who wrote the book there ou the 

shelf - 
How, forsooth, was I to know it 
If Waring meant to glide away 
Like a ghost at break of day ? 
Never looked he half so gay ! 



He was prouder than the Devil : 
How he must have cursed our revel ! 
Ay, and many other meetings, 
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings 
As up and down he paced this Lon- 
don, 
"With no work done, but great works 

undone. 
Where scarce twenty knew his name. 
Why not, then, have earlier spoken. 
Written, bustled ? Who's to blame 
If your silence kept unbroken ? 



"True, but there were sundry jot- 
tings, 

Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and 
blottings. 

Certain first jgteps were achieved 

Already which " — (is that your mean- 
ing?) 

" Had well borne out v.'hoe'er believed 



In more to 



But who goes 



gleaning 

Hedge-side chance-blades, while full- 
sheaved 

Stand corn fields by him ? Pride, o'er- 
weening 

Pride alone, puts forth such claims 

O'er the day's distinguished names. 



Meantime, how Tuuch I loved him, 

I find out now I've lost him. 

I who cared not if I moved him. 

Who could so carelessly accost him, 

Henceforth never shall get free 

Of his ghostly company. 

His eyes that just a little wink 

As deej) I go into the merit 

Of this and rhat distinguished spirit — 

His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink, 

As long I dwell on some stupendous 

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) 

Moustr'-iniorm'-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's latest piece of graphic. 

Nay, my very wrist grows warm 

With his dragging weight of arm. 

E'en so, swimmingly appears, 

Through one's after-supper musings, 

Some lost lady of old years 

With her beauteous vain endeavor 

And goodness unrepaid as ever; 

The face, accustomed to refusings, 

We, pui)pies that we were . . . Oh, 

never 
Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled 
Being aught lik(i false, forsooth, to? 
Telling aught but honest truth to? 
What a sin, had we centupled 
Its possessor's grace and sweetness ! 
No ! she heard in its completeness 
Trurh, for truth's a weighty matter. 
And, truth at issue, we can't flatter ! 
Well, 'tis done with; she's exempt 
From damning us through such a 

sally; 
And so she glides, as down a valley. 
Taking up with her contempt, 
I'ast our r<ach: and in, the flowers 
Shut her unregarded hours. 



Oh, could I have him Lack once 

more, 
This Waring, hut one-half day more ! 
Back, with the quiet face of yore. 
So hungry for acknowledgment 
Like mine ! I'd fool him to his bent. 
Feed, should not he, to heart's con- 
tent ? 
I'd say, "to only have conceived, 
Planned your great works, apart from 

progress, 
Surpasses little works achieved ! " 
I'd lie so, I should be believed. 
I'd make such havoc of the claims 
Of the day's distinguished names 
To feast him with, as feasts an ogi'ess 
Her feverish shar{vtoothed gold- 
crowned child ! 
Or as one feasts a creature rarely 
Cai>tured here, unreconciled 
To captiire ; and completely gives 
Its jiettish humors license, barely 
Kequiring that it lives. 



Ichabod, Ichabod, 
The glory is departed ! 
Travels Waring East away ? 
AVho, of knowledge, by hearsay, 
Keports a man upstarted 
Somewhere as a god, 
Hordes grown European-hearted, 
Millions of the wild made tame 
On a sudden at his fame ? 
In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 
Or who in Moscow, towanls the Czar, 
With the demurest of footfalls 
Over the Krendin's pavement bright 
AVith serpentine and syenite, 
St.eps, with five other generals 
That simultaneously take snuff. 
For each to have pretext enough 
And kerchiefwise unfold his sash 
Which, softness' self, is yet the stnff 
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps. 
And leave the grand white neck no 

gash ? 
Waring in Moscow, to those rough 
Cold northern natures borne per- 
haps, 
Like the lambwhite maiden dear 
From the circle of mute kings 
Unable to repress the tear. 
Each as his sceptre down he flings. 
To Dian's fame at Taurica, 
Where now a captive priestess, she 
alwav 



tender grave Hellenic 

to the hailstone- 

from the 



Mingles her 
speech 
With theirs, tuned 
beaten beach : 
As pours some i)igeon 

nayrrhy lands 
Rapt by'^the whirlblast to fierce Scyth- 
ian strands 
Where breed the swallows, her melo- 
dious cry 
Amid their barbarous twitter ! 
In Russia? Never! Spain were 

fitter ! 
Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain 
That we and Waring meet again 
Now, while he turns down that cool 

narrow lane 
Into the blackness, out of grave Ma- 
drid 
All fire and shine, abrupt as when 

there's slid 
Its stiff gold blazing pall 
From some black coffin-lid. 
Or, best of all, 
I love to think 

The leaving us was just a feint ; 
Back here to London did he slink, 
And now works on without a wink 
Of sleep, and we are oti the brink 
Of soujething great in fresco-paint : 
Some garret's ceiling, walls and lioor, 
Up and down and o'er and o'er 
He splashes, as none s]ilashed before 
Since great Caldara Pulidore. 
Or Music means this land of ours 
Some favor yet, to pity won 
By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers, — 
" Give me my so-long promised son, 
Let Waring end what I begun ! " 
Then down he creeps and out he steals, 
Only when the night conceals 
His face ; in Kent 'tis cherry -time, 
Or hops are picking : or at prime 
Of March he wanders as, too happj'', 
Years ago when he was young. 
Some mild eve when woods grew 

sapjiy. 
And the early moths had sprung 
To life from many a trembling sheath 
AVoven the warm boughs beneath ; 
While small birds said to themselves 
What should soon be actual song. 
And young gnats, by tens and twelves 
Made as if they were the throng 
That crowd around and carry aloft 
The sound th(!y have nursed, so sweet 

and pure. 
Out of a myriad noises soft. 
Into a tone that can endure 



1^ 



WARING. 



61 



Amid the noise of a July noon 
"Wlien all God's creatures crave their 

l)Oon, 
All at once, and all in tune, 
And get it, happy as Waring then, 
] laving first within his ken 
^\ hat a man might do with men : 
^\nd far too glad, in the even-glow, 
"To mix with the world he meant to 

take 
Into his hand, he told yon, so — 
And out of it his world to make, 
To contract and to expand 
As he shut or oped his hand. 
O Waring ! what's to really he? 
A clear stage and a crowd to see ! 
Some Garrick, say, out shall not he 
The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck ? 
Or, where most unclean beasts are 

rife. 
Some Junius — am I right?— shall 

tuck 
His sleeve, and forth with fiaying- 

knife ! 
Some Chatterton shall have the luck 
Of calling Rowley into life ! 
Some one shall somehow run a murk 
With this old world, for want of strife 
Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive 
To rouse us, Waring ! Who's alive ? 
Our men scarce seem in earnest now. 
Distinguished names ! — but 'tis,some- 

liow, 
As if they played at being names 
Still more distinguished, like the 

games 
Of children. Turn our sport to ear- 
nest 
With a visage of the sternest ! 
Bring the real times back, confessed 
Still better than our very best ! 



IL 



" When I last saw Waring" . . . 
(How all turned to him who spoke ! 
You saw Waring ? Truth or joke ? 
In land-travel or sea faring ?) 



*' We were sailing by Triest 

\Ahere a day or two we harbored : 

A sunset was in the West, 

When, looking over the vessel's side, 

One of our company espied 

A sudtlen speck to larboard. 



And as a sea-duck flies and swims 
At once, so came the light craft uj), 
With its sole lateen sail that trims 
And turns (the water round its rims 
Dancing, as round a sinking cup) 
And by us like a fish it curled, 
And drew itself up close beside. 
Its great sail on the instant furled. 
And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice 

cried 
(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 
' Buy wine of us, you English Brig? 
Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? 
A pilot for you to Triest ? 
Without one, look you ne'er so big. 
They'll never let you U[) the bay ! 
We natives should know best.' 
I turned, and 'just those fellows' 

way,' 
Our captain said, ' The 'long-shore 

thieves 
Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' 



"In truth, the boy leaned laughing 

back ; 
And one half-hidden by his side 
Under the furled sail, soon I spied, 
With great grass hat and kerchief 

black, 
Who looked up with his kingly 

throat. 
Said somewhat, while the other 

shook 
His hair back from his eyes to look 
Their longest at us ; then the boat, 
I know not how, turned sharply 

round, 
Laying her whole side on the sea 
As a leaping fish does ; from the lee 
Into the weather, cut somehow 
Her sparkling path beneath our bow, 
And so went off, as with a bound, 
Into the rosy and golden half 
O' the sky, to overtake the sun 
And reach the shore, like the sea- 
calf 
Its singing cave ; yet I caught one 
Glance ere away the boat quite 

passed. 
And neither time nor toil could mar 
Those features : so I saw the last 
Of Waring!"— You? Oh, never 

star 
Was lost here but it rose afar ! 
Look East, where whole new thou- 
sands are ! 
In Vishnu-land what Avatar? 



62 



HOME THOUGHTS, FROM 



HOME THOUGHTS, FROM 
ABROAD. 



Oh, to be iu England now that April's 

there, 
And whoever wakes in England sees, 

some morning, nnaware, 
That the lowest boughs and the brush- 
wood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny 

leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the 

orchard bough 
In England — now ! 
And after April, when May follows 
And the white-throat builds, and all 

the swallows ! 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree 

in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the 

clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent 

spray's edge — 
That's the wise thrush : he sings each 

song twice over 
Lest you should think he never could 

recapture 
The first fine careless rapture ! 
And though the fields look rough with 

hoary dew. 
And will be gay when noontide wakes 

anew 
The buttercups, the little children's 

dower 
— Far brighter than this gaudy melon- 
flower ! 



THE ITALIAN IX ENGLAND. 

That second time they hunted me 
From hill to plain, from shore to sea. 
And Austria, hounding far and wide 
Her blood-hounds through the coun- 
tryside 
Breathed hot and instant on my 

trace. — 
I made six days a hiding-place 
Of that dry green old aqueduct 
Where I and Charles, when boys, have 

plucked 
The fire-flies from the roof above, 
Bright creeping through the moss they 
love : 



— How long it seems since Charles 

was lost ! 
Six days the soldiers crossed and 

crossed 
The country in my very sight ; 
And when that peril ceased at night, 
The sky broke out in red dismay 
With signal fires ; well, there I lay 
Close covered o'er in my recess, 
Up to the neck in ferns and cress. 
Thinking on Metternich our friend, 
And Charles's miserable end. 
And much beside, two days ; the 

third. 
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard 
The peasants from the village go 
To work among the maize ; you know, 
With us in Lombardy, they"^bring 
Provisions ]mcked on mules, a string, 
With little bells that cheer their task. 
And casks, and boughs on eA'er\' cask 
To keep the sun's heat from the 

wine ; 
These I let pass in jingling line, 
And, close on them, dear noisy crew, 
The peasants from the village, too ; 
For at the very rear would troop 
Their wives and sisters in a group 
To help, I knew ; when these had 

passed , 
I threw my glove to strike the last, 
Taking the chance : she did not start. 
Much less cry out, but stoo]ied apart. 
One instant rapidly glanced round. 
And saw me beckon from the ground : 
A wild bush grows and hides my 

crypt ; 
She picked my glove up while she 

stripped 
A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
With that: my glove la^* in her breast; 
Then I drew breath ; they disap- 
peared : 
It was for Italy I feared. 

Aw hour, and she returned alone 
Exactly where my glove was thrown. 
Meanwhile cauie'^many thoughts ; ou 

me 
Rested the hopes of Italy ; 
I had devised a certain tale 
Which, when 'twas told her, could 

not fail 
Persuade a peasant of its truth ; 
I meant to call a freak of youth 
This hiding, and give hopes of pay. 
And no temptation to betray. 
But when I saw that woman's face. 
Its calm simplicity of grace. 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 



G3 



Our Italy's own attitiade 

In which she walked thus far, and 

stood, 
Planting:? each naked foot so firm, 
To crush the snake and spare the 

worm — 
At first sight of her ej^es, I said, 
" I am that man upon whose head 
They fix the price, because I hate 
TheAustrians over us : the State 
Will give you gold — oh, gold so 

much ! — 
If you beti-ay me to their clutch, 
And be your death, for aught I know, 
If once they find you saved their foe. 
Now, you must "bring me food and 

drink. 
And also paper, pen and ink. 
And carry safe what I shall write 
To Padua, which you'll reach at night 
Before the duomo shuts ; go in, 
Anil wait till Tenebrje begin ; 
Walk to the thii'd confessional, 
Betwec3n the pillar and the wall, 
And kneeling whisper, Whence comes 

peace ? 
Say it a second time, then cease ; 
And if the voice inside returns, 
From Christ and Freedom; what con- 
cerns 
The cause of Peace? — iox answer, slip 
My letter where you placed your li[) ; 
Then come back happy : we have done 
Our mother service — I, the son, 
As you the daughter of our land ! " 

Three mornings more, she took her 

stand 
In the same place, with the same 

eyes : 
I was no surer of sunrise 
Than of her coming : we conferred 
Of her own i)r()si)ects, and I heard 
She had a lover — stout and rail, 
She said — then let her eyelids fall, 
"He could do much" — as if some 

doubt 
Entered her heart, — then, passing 

out, 
" She could not speak for others, who 
Had other thouglits ; herself she 

knew : " 
And so she brought me drink and 

food. 
After four days, the scouts pursued 
Anoth<!r path ; at last arrived 
The lu'lp my Paduan friends contrived 
To furnish me : she brought the news. 
For the first time I could not choose 



But kiss her liand, and lay my own 
Upon her head — "This faith was 

shown 
To Italy, our mother ; she 
Uses my hand and l)lesses thee." 
She followed down to the sea-shore ; 
I left and never saw her more. 

How very long since I have thought 
Concerning — much less wished for — 

aught 
Beside the good of Italy, 
For which I live and mean to die ! 
I never was in love ; and since 
Charles proved false, what shall now 

convince 
M^^ inmost heart I have a friend ? 
However, if I pleased to spend 
Real wishes on myself — say, three — 
r know at least what one should be. 
I would grasp Metternich until 
I felt his red wet throat distil 
In blood through these two hands. 

And next, 

— Nor much for that am I perplexed—* 
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, 
Should die slow of a broken heart 
Under his new employers. Last 

— Ah! there, what should I wisli ? 

For fast 
Do I grow old and out of strength. 
If I resolved to seek at length 
My father's house again, how scared 
They all would look, and unprepared! 
My brothers live in Austria's pay 

— Disowned me long ago, men say ; 
And all my earl^' mates who used 
To [iraise me so — perhaps induced 
More than one early step of mine — 
Are turning wise : wliile some o|)ine 
"Freedom grows license," some sus- 
pect 

"Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
They always said, such premature 
Beginnings never could endure ! 
So, with a sullen " All's for best," 
The land seems settling to its I'est. 
I think then, I should \vish to stand 
This evening in that dear, lost land, 
Over the sea the thousand miles. 
And know if yet that woiuaii smiles 
With the calm smile ; some little 

farm 
She lives in there, no doubt : what 

harm 
If I sat on the door-side bench, 
And whih; her spindle made a trench 
Fantastically in the dust, 
Iniiuired of all her fortunes — just 



G4 



THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 



Her cliildren's ages and their names, 
And what may he the hushand's 

aims 
For each of them. I'd talk this 

out, 
And sit there, for an hour ahout, 



Then kiss lier hand once more, and 

lay 
Mine on her head, and go my vray. 

So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. 



THE EXGLTSHMAX IX ITALY. 



PIANO DI SORRENTO. 

FoRTlr, Forth, my beloved one, sit here by my side, 

On my knees put up both little feet ! I was sure, if I tried, 

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, 

Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies, 

With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads ; 

All the Plain saw me gather, I garland — the flowers or the weeds. 

Time for rain ! for your long hot dry autumn had networked with brown 
The white skin of each grape ou the bunches, marked like a quail's crown, 
,Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads, — specked with 

white 
Over l)rowu like a great spider's back, as I told you last night, — 
Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, 
Pomegranates were chappiug and splitting in halves on the tree. 
And betwixt the loose walls of great tiintstone, or in the thick dust 
On tlie path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could thrust 
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-tlower its yellow face np, 
For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one cup. 
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was in store, 
B3' the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets wliicli woke me before 
I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone. 
And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that's known. 
Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while, busy beneath, 
Your priest and his brother tuggt;d at them, the rain in their teeth. 
And out upon all the fiat house-roofs, where split tigs lay drying, 
The girls took the frails under cover : nor use seemed in trying 
To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff. 
Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind rock. No seeing our skifE 
Arrive about noon from Amalfi ! —our fisher arrive. 
And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive, 
With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit ; you touch the strange lumps, 
And mouths gape there, e\-es open, all uianner of horns and of humps. 
Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like imps, 
Cling screaming the children as naked and brtjwn as his shrimjis ; 
Himself too as bare to the middle — you see round his neck 
The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from wreck. 
But to-day not a boat reached Salerno : so back, to a man. 
Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-harvest began. 
In the vat, lialf-way up in our house-side, like blood the juice spins. 
While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till l)reathless he grins 
Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under. 
Since still, when he seems all but master, in ])ours the fresh plunder 
From girls who keep coming and going with basket on shoulder, 
And ej-es shut against the rain's driving ; your girls that are older, — 



THE ENGLfSfTMAN IN ITALY. 6.5 

For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed 

Of the orchard's black mould, the loNe-apple lies pulpy and red. 

All the young ones are kneeling and tilling their laps with the snails 

Tempted out by this first rainy weather, — your best of regales, 

As to-night will be {)ro\ed to my sorrow, when, sup[ting in state. 

We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate) 

With lasagne so tempting to swallow in sli{)[)er3' ropes. 

And gourds fried in great purple slices, that color of popes. 

Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you : the rain-water slips 

O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips 

Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, while awake, 

This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake by flake. 

Like an onion, each smoother and whiter : next, sip this weak wine 

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopiier, a leaf of the vine ; 

And end with the prickly pear's red flesh that leaves through its juice 

The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco is loose ! 
Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in one's track, 
Temjit the stranger to pick np and bite them, thougli not yet half black ! 
How the old twisted olive-tnmks shudder, the medlars let fall 
Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap oif, figs and all, 
For here comes the whole of the tempest ! no refuge, but creep 
Back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep. 

Oh ! how will your country show next week, when all the \ane-houghs 
Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and the cows? 
Last eve, I rode over the mountains ; your brother, my guide, 
Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side, 
Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious, —or strip from the sorbs 
A treasure, or, rosy aiul wondrous, those hairy gold orbs ! 
But my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stop|>ing to neigh 
When he recognized down in the valley his mates on their way 
With the fagots and barrels of water. And soon we emerged 
From the plain where the woods could scarce follow : and still, as we urged 
Our way, the woods wondered, and left us. Up, up still we trudged. 
Though the wild |)ath grew wilder each instant, and place was e'en grudged 
'Mid the rock-(!hasins and piles of loose stones like the loose broken teeth 
Of some monster which climbed there to die, from the ocean beneath — 
Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed that clung to the ■jiath, 
And dark rosemary ever a-dying. that, 'spite the wind s wrath, 
So loves the salt rock's face to seaward : and lentisks as stanch 
To the stone where they root and bear berries: and , . . what shows a branch 
Coral-col(u-ed, transparent, with circlets of pale seagreen leaves ; 
Over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o'er sheaves. 
Still, foot after ifoot like a lady, still, round after round. 
He climbed to the top of Calvano : and God's own profound 
Was above me, and round ine the mountains, and under, the soa. 
And within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be. 
Oh, heaven and the terrible crvsta! ! no rampart excludes 
Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. 
Oh, those mountains, their infin.ite movement ! still moving with you ; 
For, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view 
To observe the intruder ; you see it. if quickly you turn 

And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should learn 
How the soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they pretend) 
— Cower beneath them, the black sea-]>ine crouches, the wild fruit-trees bend, 
E'en the tnyrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut : all is silent and grave : 
'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, — how fair ! but a slave. 



6Q THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 

So, I turned to the sea ; and there shimbered, as greenly as ever 

Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages can sever 

The Three, nor enable their sister to join them, — half-way 

On the voyage, slie looked at Ulysses — no farther to-day ! 

Though the small one, just launched in the wave, watches breast-high and 

steady 
From under the rock her hold sister, swum half-way already. 
Fortu, shall we sail there together, and see, from the sides, 
Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts wliere tiie siren abides ? 
Shall we sail roxmd and round them, close over the rocks, though unseen, 
That ruffle the gray glassy water to glorious green ? 
Tlien scramble froin splinter to splinter, reach land, and explore. 
On the largest, the strange S(]uare bla;;k turret with never a door, 
Just a loop to admit the quick lizards? Then, stand there and hear 
The birds' quiet singing, that tells vis what life is, so clear ? 

— The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages ago, 

He heard and he knew this life's secret, I hear and I know. 

Ah, see ! The sun breaks o'er Calvano. He strikes the great gloom 
And flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy gold fume. 
All is over. Look out, see, the gypsy, our tinker and suiith, 
Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and dowu-squatted forthwith 
To his hammering imder the wall there ! One eye keeps aloof 
The urchins that itch to be putting his Jew's-harp to i^roof, 
AV'hile the other, through locks of curled wire, is watching how sleek 
Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall. Chew, al)bot's own cheek ! 
All is over. Wake up and come out now, and down let us go, 
And see the fine things got in order at church for the show 
Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow's the Feast 
Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means of Virgins the least : 
As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art) 
The Dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart. 
Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers ; 
All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar ablaze with long tapers. 
But the great masterjiiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold 
All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and trumpeters bold 
Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber : who, when the priest's hoarse, 
AVill strike us up something that's brisk for the feast's second course. 
And then will the llaxen-wigged Image be carried in pomp 
Through the plain, while, in gallant procession, the priests mean to stomp. 
All round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder stopped, 
Which will be, when the Image re-enters, religiously i)opped. 
And at night from the crest of Calvano great bonfires will hang : 
On the plaiu will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers bang. 
At all events, come — to the garden, as far as the wall : 
See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out there shall fall 
A scorpion with wide angry nip])ers ! 

— " Such trifles ! " you say ? 
Fortii, in my England at home, men meet gravely to-day 
And debate, if aliolishing corn-laws be righteous and wise ! 

— If t'were proper, Scirocco should vanish iij black from the skies I 



UP AT A VILLA — DOWN IN THE CITY. 67 

UP AT A VILLA — DO WX IN THE CITY. 

(AS DISTIXGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY.) 

I. 
Had I but plenty of money, raoney euongh and to spare, 
Tlie house foi- me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square ; 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the Nviudow there ! 

II. 
Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a jierfect feast ; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. 

III. 
Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! 
— 1 scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. 

IV. 

But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why ? 

They are vStone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye ! 

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; 

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; 

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high ; 

And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

V. 

What of a villa ? Though winter be over in March by rights, 
'Tis May perliaps ere the snow sliall have withered well off the heights : 
You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, 
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 

YI. 

Is it better in May, I a.sk you ? You've summer all at once ; 

In a day he leaps complete with a few strong .April suns. 

'.Mid tlie sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, 

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to i>ick and sell. 

VII. 

Is it ever hot in the square ? There's a fountain to spout and splash ! 
In the shade it sings and springs : in the shine such foam-bows flash 
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that jirance and paddle and pash 
Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers do not abash, 
Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 

VIII. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, 

Except yon cypress that i^oints like death's lean lifted forefinger. 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle. 

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 

Late August or early S(;ptt'mber, the stunning cicala is shrill, 

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. 

Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever and chill. 



G8 



PfCTOR IGNOTUS. 



Ere you open your eyes in the city, tlie blessed cburch-Lells begin : 

No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : 

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth 

Of the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 

At the post-office such a scene-picture — the new play, piping hot ! 

And a notice how, only this tnoruing, three liberal thieves were shot. 

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the 

Duke's ! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so 
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicei'o, 
"And moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paul has 

reached, " , 

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he 

preached." 
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession ! our Lady borne smiling and 

smart, 
^Vith a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart ! 
B<inf/-wh(n>f/-iohanf/ goes the drum, tootle-t' -tootle the fife ; 
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 



But bless you, it's dear — it's dear ! fowls, wine, at double the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa fnv me not the city f 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but still — ah, the pity, the pity ! 
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, 
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles ; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scan- 
dals : 
Banf/-v;hnn(/-ioJianrf goes the drum, footle-te-tootle the fife. 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life ! 



PICTOR IGXOTUS. 

[FLORENCE, 15—.] 

COULD have painted pictures like 

that youth's 
Ye praise so. How my soul springs 



up 



! No bar 



Stayed me — ah, thought which sad- 
dens while it soothes ! 
— Never did fate forbid me, star by 
star. 
To outburst on your night, with all 
ray gift 
Of fires from God : nor would my 
flesh have shrunk 



From seconding my soul, with eyes 
uplift 
And wide to heaven, or, straight like 
thunder, sunk 
To the centre, of an instant ; or 
around 
Turned calmly and inquisitive, to 
scan 
The license and the limit, space and 
bound. 
Allowed to truth made visible in 
man. 
And, like that youth ye praise so, all 
I saw, 
Over the canvas could my hand 
have flung, 



PICTOR JGNOTUS. 



G9 



Each face obedient to its i^assion's 
law, 
Each passion clear proclaimed with- 
out a tongue : 
Whether Hope rose at once in all the 
blood, 
A-tiptoe for the blessing of em- 
brace. 
Or Rai)ture drooped the eyes, as when 
lier brood 
Pull down the nesting dove's heart 
to its place ; 
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead 
up, 
And locked the mouth fast, like a 
castle braved, — 
O human faces ! liath it spilt, my cup ? 
What did ye give rae that I have 
not saved ? 
Nor will I say I have not dreamed 
(how well !) 
Of going — I, in each new picture, 
— forth. 
As, making new hearts beat and 
bosoms swell. 
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, 
South, or North, 
Bound for the calmly satisfied great 
State, 
Or glad aspiring little burgh, it 
went, 
Flowers cast upon the car which bore 
the freight, 
Through old streets named afresh 
from the event. 
Till it reached home, where learned 
age should greet 
My face, and youth, the star not yet 
distinct 
Above his hair, lie learning at my 
fi^et ! - 
Oh ! thus to live, I and my picture, 
linked 
With love about, and praise, till life 
should etid. 
And then not go to heaven, but 
linger here. 
Here on my earth, earth's every man 
my friend. 
The thought grew frightful, 'twas so 
wildly dear ! 
But a voice changed it. Glimpses of 
such sights 
Have scared me, like the revels 
through a door 
Of some strange house of idols at its 
rites ! 



This world seemed not the world it 
was, before : 
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, 
there trooped 
. . . Who summoned those cold 
faces that begun 
To press on me and judge me ? 
Though I stooped 
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a 
nun. 
They drew me forth, and spite of me 
. . . enough ! 
These buy and sell our pictures, 
take and give. 
Count them for garniture and house- 
hold-stuff. 
And wliere they live needs must 
our pictTires live 
And see their faces, list(!n to their 
prate, 
Partakers of their daily pettiness. 
Discussed of, — " This I love, or this I 
hate. 
This likes me more, and this affects 
me less ! " 
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at 
whil(!S 
My heart sinks, as monotonous I 
jiaint 
These endless cloisters and eternal 
aisles 
With the same series. Virgin, Babe, 
and Saint, 
With tlie same cold calm beautiful 
regard, — 
At least no merchant traffics in ray 
heart : 
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall 
\A'ard 
Vain tongues from where my jiic- 
tures stand apart : 
Only prayer breaks the silence of the 
shrine 
While, blackening in the daily 
candle-smoke. 
They moulder on the damp wall's 
travertine, 
'Mid echoes the light footstep never 
woke. 
So, die my pictures ! surely, gently 
die ! 
O 5X)uth ! Tuen praise so, — holds 
their praise its worth ? 
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its 
golden cr3- ? 
Tastes sweet the water with such 
specks of earth ? 



70 



FRA LIPPO LI PPL 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 

I AM poor brother Lippo, by your 

leave 
You need not clap yonr torches to iny 

face. 
Zooks ! what's to blame ? you think 

you see a monk ! 
"What, 'tis past midnight, and you go 

the rounds, 
And here you catch me at an alley's 

end 
"Where sportive ladies leave their 

doors ajar ? 
The Carmine's my cloister : hunt it 

up, 
Do, — harry out, if you must show 

your zeal, 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his 

wrong hole, 
And nip each softllng of a wee white 

mouse, 
Weke, loeke, that's crept to keep him 

company ! 
Aha ! you know your betters ? Then, 

you'll take 
Your "hand away that's fiddling on 

my throat. 
And please to know me likewise. 

Who am I ? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a 

friend 
Three streets off — he's a certain . . . 

how d'ye call ? 
Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, 
I' the house that caps the corner. 

Boh ! you wore best ! 
E-emember and tell me the day you're 

hanged. 
How you affected such a gullet's- 

gripe ! 
But you, sir, it concerns you that your 

knaves 
Pick up a manner, nor discredit you : 
Zooks ! are we jiilcliards, that they 

sweep the streets 
And count fair prize what comes into 

their net ? 
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! 
Just such a face! Wliy, sir, you make 

amends. 
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang- 
dogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the 

health 
Of the nuinificent House that harbors 

me 
(And many more beside, lads ! more 

beside !) 



And all's come square again. I'd like 

his face — 
His, elbowing on his comrade in the 

door 
With the pike and lantern, — for the 

slave That holds 
John Baptist's head a-daugle by the 

hair 
With one hand (" Look you, now," as 

who should say) 
And his weapon in the other, yet uu- 

wiped ! 
It's not your chance to have a bit of 

chalk, 
A v.ood-coal or the like ? or you 

should see ! 
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style 

me so. 
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and 

down. 
You know them, and thej'^ take 3'ou? 

like enough ! 
I saw the proper twinkle in your 

eye — 
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very 

first. 
Let's sit and set things straight now, 

hip to haunch. 
Here's spring come, and the nights 

one makes up bands 
To roam the town and sing out car- 
nival. 
And I've been three weeks .shut with- 
in my mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints 

and sa4nts 
And saints again. I could not paint 

all night — 
Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh 

air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little 

feet, 
A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and 

wliifts of song, — 
Floioer o' the broom, 
Take away love, ami ovr earth is a tomh! 
Flower o' the quince, 
I let Lisa fjo, and lohat f/ood in life 

since? 
Floioer o' tJie thj/me — aud so on. 

Round they went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner 

wdien a titter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moon- 
light, — three slim shapes. 
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, 

sir, fiesh and blood 
That's all I'm made of ! Into shreds 

it went, 



FRA LfPPO LI PPT. 



71 



Curtain and couuterpaue and cover- 
let, 
All the bed-furniture - a dozen knots, 
There was a ladder! Down I let my- 
self, 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, 

and so dropped, 
And after them. I came up with the 

fun 
Hard by Saint Lawrence, hail fellow, 

well met, — 
Floicer o' the rose, 
If Fee been merry, ichat matter who 

knoics ? 
And so, as I was stealing back again. 
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 
On Jerome knocking at his poor old 

breast 
AVith his great round stone to subdue 

the tiesh. 
You snaji me of the sudden. Ah, I 

see ! 
Though your eye twinkles still, you 

shake your head — 
Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — 

the sting's in that ! 
If ^faster Cosimo announced himself, 
INIum's the word naturally; but a 

monk ! 
Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, 

now ! 
I was a baby when my mother died 
And father died and left me in the 

street. 
I starved there, God knows how, a 

year or two 
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and 

shucks, 
Eefuse and rubbish. One fine frost}' 

day. 
My stomach being empty as your 

hat, 
The wind doubled me up and down I 

went. 
Old aunt Lapaccia trussed me with 

one hand 
(Its fellow was a stinger, as I knew). 
And so along the wall, over the 

bridge, 
By the straight cut to the convent. 

Six words there. 
While I stood munching my first 

bread that month : 
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the 

good fat father 
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refec- 
tion-time, — 
" To quit this very miserable world ? 



Will you renounce " . . . " the mouth- 
ful of bread ? " thought 1 ; 
By no means ! Brief, the\' made a 

monk of me ; 
I did renounce the world, its pride 

and greed, 
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking- 
house, 
Trash, such as these poor devils of 

Medici 
Have given their hearts to — all at 

eight years old. 
AVell, sir, I found in time, you may 

be sure, 
'Twas not for nothing — the good 

bellyful, 
The warm serge and the rope that 

goes all round, 
And day-long blessed idleness beside! 
" Let's see what the urchin's tit fo- " 

— that came next. 
Xot overmuch their way, I must con- 
fess. 
Such a to-do ! They tried me with 

their books : 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in 

pure waste ! 
Flower o' the clove. 
All the Latin I construe is, "Amo" 1 

lore ! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves 

in the streets 
Eight years together as my fortune 

was, 
Watching folk's faces to know who 

will fling 
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch 

he desires, 
And who will curse or kick him for 

his pains, — 
Which gentleman processional and 

fine. 
Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and 

catch 
The droppings of the wax to sell 

again. 
Or holla for the Eight and have him 

whi]iped, — 
How say I? — nay, which dog bites, 

wiiich lets drop 
His bone from the heap of offal in the 

street, — 
Whj', soul and sense of him grow- 
sharp alike. 
He learns the look of things, and none 

the lass 
For admonition from the huager- 

piuch. 



72 



FRA L/PPO LIPPL 



I had a store of such remarks, he 
sure, 

Which, after I found leisure, turned 
to use : 

I drew men's faces on my copy-hooks, 

Scrawled them within the antii^ho- 
nary's marf^e, 

Joined lei^s and arms to the long 
music-notes, 

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's 
and B's, 

And made a string of pictures of the 
world 

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and 
noun, 

On the wall, the bench, the door. 
The monks looked black. 

"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him 
out, d'j-e say ? 

In no wise. Lose a crow and catch 
a lark. 

"What if at last we get our man of 
parts. 

We Carmelites, like those Camaldo- 
lese 

And Preaching Friars, to do our 
cl)ur(;li up fine 

And put the front on it that ought to 
be ! " 

And hereupon he bade me daub away. 

Thank you! my head being craujmed, 
the walls a blank. 

Never was such prompt disemburden- 
ing. 

First every sort of monk, the black 
and white, 

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks 
at church. 

From good old gossips waiting to con- 
fess 

Their cribs of barrel-droppings, can- 
dle-ends, — 

To the breathless fellow at the altar- 
foot. 

Fresh from his murder, safe and sit- 
ting there 

With the little children round him in 
a row 

Of admiration, half for his beard, and 
half 

For that wbite anger of his victim's 
son 

Shaking a fist at him with one fierce 
arm . 

Signing himself vrith the other be- 
cause of Christ 

(Whose sad face on the cross sees only 
this 

After the passion of a thousand years), 



Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her 

head 
(Which the intense eyes looked 

through), came at eve 
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a 

loaf, 
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of 

flowers 
(The brute took growling), prayed, and 

so was gone. 
I painted all, then cried, " 'Tis ask 

and have ; 
Choose, for more's ready ! " — laid the 

ladder flat, 
And showed my covei-ed bit of clois- 
ter-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and 

praised loud 
Till checked, taught what to see and 

not to see. 
Being simple bodies, — "That's the 

very man ! 
Look at the bov who stoops to pat the 

dog ! 
That woman's like the Prior's niece 

wlio comes 
To care about his asthma : it's the 

life ! " 
But there my triumph's straw-fire 

flared and funked ; 
Their betters took their turn to see 

and sa3' : 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face 
And stopped all that in no time. 

•' How ? what's here ? 
Quite from the mark of painting, bless 

us all ! 
Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the 

true 
As much as pea and pea ! it's devil's 

game ! 
Your business is not to catch men with 

show, 
With homage to the perishable clay. 
But lift them over it, ignores it all, 
Make them forget there's such a thing 

as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of 

men — 
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . 

no, it's not . . . 
It's vapor done up like a new-born 

babe — 
(In that shape when you die it leaves 

your mouth), 
It's . . . well, what matters talking, 

it's the soul ! 
Give us no more of body than shows 

soul ! 



FRA LIPPO LJPPI. 



73 



Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-prais- 

injT God, 
That sets us praising, — why not stop 

with \mn ? 
Why put all thoughts of praise out of 

our liead 
"With wonder at lines, colors, and 

what not ? 
Paint the soul, never mind the legs 

and arms ! 
Ruh all out, try at it a second time ! 
Oh ! that white smallish feujale with 

the hreasts, 
She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I 

would say, — 
Who went and" danced, and got men's 

heads cut off ! 
Have it all out ! " Now, is this sense, 

I ask? 
A fine way to paint soul, by painting 

body 
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must 

go farther 
And can't fare worse ! Thus, yellow 

does for white 
When what you put for yellow's 

sirai)]y hlack, 
And any sort of meaning looks in- 
tense 
When all heside itself means and 

looks naiight. 
Why can't a painter lift each foot in 

turn, 
Left foot and right foot, go a double 

step, 
Make his flesh liker and his soul more 

like. 
Both in their order? Take the pret- 
tiest face. 
The Prior's niece . , . patron saint ^ — 

is it so pretty 
You can't discoA'er if it means hope, 

fear. 
Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with 

these ? 
Suppose I've made her ej'es all right 

and blue, 
Can't I take breath and try to add 

life's flash. 
And then add soul and heighten them 

threefold ? 
Or say there's beauty with no soul 

at all — 
(I neA'er saw it — put the case the 

same — ) 
If you get simple beauty and naught 

else, 
You get about the best thing God 

invents : 



That's somewhat : and you'll find the 

soul you have missed. 
Within .yourself, when you return 

him tlmnks. 
"Rub all out !" Well, well, there's 

my life, in short. 
And so the thing has gone on ever 

since. 
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've 

broken bounds : 
You should not take a fellow eight 

years old 
And make him swear to never kiss the 

girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I 

please — 
Having a friend, you see, in the 

Corner-house ! 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in 

front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes 

than just 
To plant a flag in, or tie tip a horse ! 
And yet the old schooling sticks, the 

old grave eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I 

work. 
The heads shake still — "It's art's 

decline, my son ! 
You're not of the true painters, great 

and old ; 
Brother Angelico's the man. you'll 

find ; 
Brother Lorenzo stands his single 

peer : 
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the 

third ! " 
Floioer o' the pine, 
You keep your mist}' . . . manners, and 

I'll stick to mine ! 
I'm not the third, then : bless us, 

they must knoAV ! 
Don't you think they're the likeliest 

to know. 
They with their Latin ? So, I swallow 

my rage, 
Clinch my teeth, suck my lips in 

tight, and paint 
To please them — sometimes do, and 

sometimes don't ; 
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to 

come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at 

my saints — 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the 

Avorld — 
{Hov:er o' the peach, 
Death for us all, and his oion life for 

each .') 



74 



FRA LIPPO LIPPL 



And my whole soul revolves, the cup 

runs over. 
The workl and life's too big to pass for 

a dream, 
And I do these wild things in sheer 

despite, 
And play the fooleries you catch me 

at 
In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, 

out at grass 
After hard years, throws up his stiff 

heels so. 
Although the miller does not preach 

to him 
The onlv good of grass is to make 

chaff. 
What would men have ? Do they like 

grass or no — 
May they or mayn't they ? all I want's 

tlie thing 
Settled foreveV one way As it is, 
iTou tell too many lies and hurt your- 
self : 
You don't like what you only like too 

much, 
You do like what, if given you at 

your word, 
You find abundantly detestable. 
For me. I think I sj)cak as I was 

taught. 
I always see the garden, and God 

there 
A-maki)ig man's wife : and, my lesson 

learned. 
The value and significance of flesh, 
I can't unlearn ten minutes after- 
wards. 
You understand me : I'm a beast, I 

know. 
But see, now — why, I see as cer- 
tainly 
As that the morning-star's about to 

shine. 
What will hap some day. We've a 

youngster here 
Comes to our convent, studies what I 

do. 
Slouches and stares and lets no atom 

drop : 
His name is Guidi — he'll not mind 

the monks — 
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets 

them talk — 
He picks my practice up — he'll paint 

apace, 
I hope so — though I never live so 

long, 
I know what's sure to follow. You 

be judge ! 



You speak no Latin more than I, 

belike ; 
However, you're my man, you've 

seen the world 

— The beauty and the wonder and 

the power. 
The shapes of things, their colors, 

lights, and shades. 
Changes, surprises, — and God made 

it all! 

— For what? Do you feel thankful, 

ay or no, 
For this fair town's face, youder 

river's line, 
The mountain round it and the sky 

above, 
Much more the figures of man, woman, 

child, 
These are the frame to? What's it 

all about? 
To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt 

upon. 
Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! 

— you say. 
But why not do as w^ell as say, — 

paint these 
Just as they are, careless what comes 

of it ? 
God's works — paint any one, and 

count it crime 
To let a truth slip. Don't object, 

" His works 
Are here already ; nature is comj^lete: 
Sui)i)ose you reproduce her — (which 

you can't) 
There's no advantage ! you must beat 

her, then." 
For, don't you mark ? we're made so 

that we love 
First when we see them painted, 

things we have passed 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to 

see; 
And so they are better, painted — 

better to us. 
Which is the same thing. Art was 

given for that; 
God uses us to help each other so. 
Lending our minds out. Have jou 

noticed, now 
Your cuUion's hanging face? A bit 

of chalk. 
And trust me but you should, though ! 

How nuich more 
If I drew higher things with the .same 

truth ! 
That were to take the Prior's pulpits 

]>lace. 
Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, 



FRA LIPPO LI PPT. 



iO 



It makes me mad to see what men 

shall do 
And we in our graves ! This world's 

no blot lor us 
Nor blank ; it means intensely, and 

means good : 
To find its meaning is my meat and 

drink. 
" Ay, but you don't so instigate to 

prayer ! " 
Strikes in the Prior: " when your 

meaning's plain 
It does not say to folks — remember 

matins, 
Or, mind you fast next Friday ! " 

Why] for this 
What need of art at all ? A skull 

and bones, 
Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, 

or, what's best, 
A bell to chime the hour with, does 

as well. 
I painted a Saint Lawrence six months 

since 
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine 

style : 
"How looks my painting, now the 

scaffold's down ? " 
I ask a brotlier : "Hugely," he re- 
turns — 
" Already not one phiz of your three 

slaves 
Who turn the Deacon ofE his toasted 

side, 
But's scratched and prodded to our 

heart's content. 
The pious people have so eased their 

own 
With coming to say prayers there in 

a rage : 
We get on fast to see the bricks be- 
neath. 
Expect another job this time next 

year, 
For pity and religion grow i' the 

crowd — 
Your painting serves its purpose!'' 

Hang tiie fools ! 

— That is — you'll not mistake an 

idle word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Got 

wot 
Tasting the air this spicy night which 

turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti 

wine ! 
Oh, the church knows ! don't misre- 

port me, now 



It's natural a poor m(mk out of bounds 
Should have his apt word to excuse 

himself : 
And hearken how I plot to make 

amends. 
I have bethought me: I shall jiaint a 

piece 
. . . There's for you ! Give me six 

months, then go, see 
Something in Saut' Ambrogio's ! 

Bless the nuns ! 
They want a cast o' my office. I shall 

paint 
God in the midst, Madonna and her 

babe. 
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel- 
brood, 
Lilies and vestments and \A'hite faces, 

sweet 
As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
When ladies crowd to church at mid- 
summer. 
And then i' the front, of course a saint 

or two — 
Saint John, because he saves the 

Florentines, 
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in 

black and white 
The convent's friends and gives them 

a long day, 
And Job, I must have him there past 

mistake. 
The man of Uz (and Us without 

the z. 
Painters who need his patience). 

Well, all these 
Secured at their devotion, up shall 

come 
Out of a corner when yon least ex- 
pect. 
As one bv a dark stair into a great 

light. 
Music and talking, who but Lippo ! 

I! — 
Mazed, motionles.s, and moon-struck 

— I'm the man ! 
Back I shrink — what is this I see 

and hear? 
I, caught up with my monk's things 

i)y mistake. 
My old serge gown and rope that goes 

all round, 
I. in this presence, this pure company ! 
Where's a hole, where's a corner for 

escape ? 
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a 

thing 
Forward, puts out a soft palm — " Not 

so fast!" 



76 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 



— Addresses the celestial i')reseiice, 

" nay — 
He made you and devised you, after 

all, 
Tliougli he's none of you ! Could 

Saint John there, draw — 
His cainel-hair make w^t a painting- 

hrush ? 
We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
li^tp. pcf/ecit opvs ! " So, all smile — 
I shuttle sideways with my blushing 

face 
Under the cover of a hundred wings 
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when 

you're gay 
And play hot cockles, all the doors 

being shut 
Till, wholly unexpecteil, in there pops 
The hot-head husband ! Thus I scut- 
tle off 
To some safe bench behind, not let- 
ting go 
The pahn of her, the little lily thing 
That spoke the good word for me in 

the nick. 
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint 

Lucy, I would say. 
And so all's saved for me, and for the 

church 
A pretty picture gained. Go, six 

months hence ! 
Your hand, sir, and good-by: no 

liglits, no lights ! 
The street's hushed, and I know my 

own way back, 
Don't fear me ! There's the gray 

beginning. Zooks ! 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 

(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINT- 
ER.") 

But do not let us quarrel any more, 
No, my Lucrezia ! bear with me for 

once : 
Sit down and all shall happen as you 

wish. 
You turn your face, but does it bring 

your heart ? 
I'll work then foryour friend's friend, 

never fear, 
Treat his own subject after his own 

v.ay, 



Fix his own time, accept too his own 

price. 
And shut the money into this small 

hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it? 

tenderly ? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow, 

Love ! 
I often am much wearier than you 

tliink. 
This evening more than usual : and it 

seems 
As if— forgive now — should you let 

me sit 
Here by the window, Avith your hand 

in mine, 
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 
Both of one mind, as married peoj^le 

use, 
Quietly, quietly the evening through, 
I might get up to-morrow to my work 
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us 

try. 
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for 

this ! 
Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 
And mine, the man's bared breast 

.she curls inside. 
Don't count the time lost, neither; 

you must serve 
For each of the five pictures we re- 
quire : 
It saves a model. So ! keep looking 

so — 
My serpentining beauty, rounds on 

rounds ! 

— How could you ever prick those 

perfect ears, 
EA'en to put the pearl there ! oh, so 

sweet — 
My face, my moon, my eA'erybody's 

m^oon, 
Which 'everybody looks on and calls 

liis, 
And, I suppose, is looked on by in 

turn, 
While she looks — no one's : A'ery 

dear, no less. 
Yon smile? why, there's my picture 

ready made, 
There's what we painters call our 

harmony I 
A common grayness silvers eA'"ery 

thing,— 
All in a twilight, yon and I alike 

— You, at the point of your first pride 

in me 
^(That's gone, you know) — but I, at 
«every point ; 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 



My youth, my hope, my art, being all 

toned down 
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
There's the bell clinking from the 

chapel-top ; 
That length of convent-wall across 

the way 
Holds the trees safer, huddled more 

inside ; 
The last monk leaves the garden; 

days decrease. 
And autumn grows, autumn in every 

thing. 
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a 

shape, 
As if I saw alike my work and self 
And all that I was born to be and 

do, 
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in 

God's hand. 
How strange now, looks the life he 

makes us lead; 
So free we seem, so fettered fast we 

are ! 
I f(!el he laid the fetter : let it lie I 
This chamber, for example — turn 

your head — 
All that's behind us ! You don't un- 
derstand 
Nor care to understand about my art, 
liut you can hear at least when peo- 
ple speak : 
And that cartoon, the second from the 

door 

— It is the thing, Love! so such things 

shoiild be : 
Beliold Madonna! — I am bold to say. 
I can do with my pencil what I know, 
\\'hat I see, what at bottom of ma- 
llear t 
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
Do easily, too — when I say, ]ierfpctly, 
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are 

judge, 
Who listened to the Legate's talk last 

week ; 
And just as much they used to say in 

France. 
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it ! 
No sketches first, no studies, that's 

long past : 
I do what many dream of, all their 

lives, 

— Dream? strive to do, and agonize 

to do. 
And fail in doing. I could count 

twenty such 
On twice your fingers, and not leave 

this town. 



\\'ho strive — you don't know how 

the others strive 
To paint a little thing like that you 

smeared 
Carelessly passing with your robes 

atloat, — 
Yet do much less, so much less. Some- 
one says, 
(I know his name, no matter) — so 

much less ! 
Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am 

judged. 
There burns a truer light of God in 

them, 
In their Aexed beating stuffed and 

stopped-up l.-rain, 
Heart, or wbate'er else, than goes on 

to prompt 
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's 

hand of mine. 
Their works drop groundward, but 

themselves, I know, 
Reach nmny a time a heaven that's 

shut to me, 
Enter and take their place there sure 

enough. 
Though they come back and cannot 

tell the world. 
My works are nearer heaA'en, but I 

sit here. 
The sudden blood of these men! at a 

word — 
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, 

it boils too. 
I, painting from myself and to myself, 
Know what I do, am unmoved by 

men's blame 
Or their praise either. Somebody 

remarks 
Morello's outline there is wrongly 

traced. 
His hue mistaken ; what of that ? or 

else. 
Rightly traced and well ordei-ed ; 

what of that ? 
Speak as they please, what does the 

mountain care ? 
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed 

his grasji. 
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver- 
gray, 
Placid and perfect with my art: the 

worse ! 
I know both what I want and what 

might gain ; 
And yet how profitless to know, to 

sigh 
" Had I been two, another and my- 
self, 



v» 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 



Our liead would have o'erlooked the 
world ! " No doubt. 

Yonder's a work now, of that famous 
youth 

The Urbinate who died five years ago. 

('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it 
me.) 

"Well, I can fancy how he did it all, 

Pouring his soul, with kings and 
popes to see, 

Reaching, that heaven might so re- 
plenish liim. 

Above and through his art — for it 
gives way; 

That arm is wVongh^ put — and there 
again — 

A fault to pardon in the drawing's 
lines. 

Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, 

He means right — that, a child may 
understand. 

Still, what an arm! and I could alter 
it: 

But all the play, the insight and the 
stretch — 

Out of rae, out of me ! And where- 
fore out ? 

Had you enjoined them on me, given 
me soul, 

"We might have risen to Rafael, I and 
you. 

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, 
1 tliink — 

More than I merit, yes, by many 
times. 

But had you — oh, with the same per- 
fect brow, 

And perfect eyes, and more than per- 
fect mouth, 

And the low voice my soul hears, as 
a bird 

The fowler's pipe, and follows to the 
snare — 

Had you, with these the same, but 
brought a mind ! 

Some women do so. Had the mouth 
tliere urged 

" God aud the glory ! never care for 
gain. 

The present by the future, what is 
that ? 

Live for fame, side by side with Ag- 
nolo ! 

Rafael is waiting : up to God, all 
tliree ! " 

I might have done it for you. So it 
seems : 

Perhaps not. All is as God over- 
rules. 



Beside, incentives come from the soul's 

self; 
The rest avail not. "Why do I need 

you ? 
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? 
In this world, who can do a thing, 

will not ; 
And who would do it, cannot, I per- 
ceive : 
Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, 

too, the power — 
And til us we half-men struggle. At 

the end, 
God, I conclude, compensates, pun- 
ishes. 
'Tis safer for me, if the award be 

strict. 
That I am something underrated here, 
Poor this long while, des^iised, to 

speak the truth. 
I dared not, do von know, leave home 

all day, 
For fear of chancing on the Paris 

lords. 
The best is when the3' pass and look 

aside ; 
But they speak sometimes : I must 

bear it all. 
Well may they speak ! That Francis, 

that first time. 
And that long festal year at Fontaine- 

bleau ! 
I surely then could sometimes leave 

the ground, 
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 
In that humane great monarch's gold- 
en look, — 
One finger in his beard or twisted 

curl 
Over his mouth's good mark that 

made the smile. 
One arm about my shoulder, round 

my neck. 
The jingle of his gold chain in my 

ear, 
I painting proudlj' with his breath on 

me. 
All his court round him, seeing with 

his eyes. 
Such frank French eyes, and such a 

fire of souls 
Profuse, my hand kept plying by 

those hearts, — 
And, best of all, this, this, this face 

beyond. 
This in "the background, waiting on 

my work, 
To crown the issue with a last re- 
ward ! 



ANDREA DEL SARTO. 



A good time, was it not, my kingly 

days ? 
And liaci you not grown restless . . . 

but I kucw" — 
'Tis done and jiast ; 'twas right, my 

instinct said : 
Too live the life grew, golden and not 

gray : 
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun 

should tempt 
Out of tlie grange whose four walls 

make his world. 
How could it epd in any other way ? 
You called me, and I came home to 

your heart. 
The triumph was, to have ended 

there ; then, if 
I reached it ere the triumph, what is 

Inst ? 
Let my hands frame your face in 

your hair's gold. 
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 
" Rafael did this, Andrea painted 

that ; 
The Roman's is the better when yon 

pray, 
But still the other's Virgin was his 

wife ■' — 
Men will excuse me. I am glad to 

judge 
Both pictures in your presence ; 

clearer grows 
My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God 

lives. 
Said one day Agnolo, his very self. 
To Rafael ... I have known it all 

these years . . . 
("When the young man was flaming 

out his thoughts 
Upon a pal ace- wall for Rome to see. 
Too lifted uj) in heart because of 

it) 
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little 

scrub 
Goes up and down our Florence, 

none cares how. 
Who, were he set to plan and exe- 
cute 
As you are, pricked on by your 

jiopes and kings. 
Would bring the sweat into that 

l)row of yours ! " 
To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm 

is wrong, 
I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to 

see, 
Give the chalk hero — quick, thus the 

line should go ! 



Ay, but the soul ! he's Rafael ! rub it 

out ! 
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the 

truth. 
(What he? w^iy, who but Michel 

Agnolo ? 
Do you forget already words like 

those ? ) 
If reallv there was such a chance so 

lost,— 
Is, whether you're — not grateful — 

but more pleased. 
Well, let me think so. And you smile 

indeed ! 
This hour has been an hour ! An- 
other smile ? 
If you woidd sit thus by me every 

night 
I should work better, do you compre- 
hend ? 
I mean that I should earn more, give 

you more. 
See, it is settled dusk now ; there's a 

star ; 
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show 

the wall. 
The cue-owls speak the name we 

call them by. 
Come from the window, love, — come 

in, at last, 
Inside the melancholy little house 
We built to be so gay with. God is 

just. 
King Francis may forgive me : oft at 

nights 
When T look up from painting, eyes 

tired out, 
The w^alls become illumined, brick 

from brick 
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce 

bright gold. 
That gold of his I did cement them 

with ! 
Let us but love each other. Must 

you go ? 
That cousin here again ? he waits 

outside ? 
Must see you — you, and not with 

me ? Those loans? 
More gaming debts to pav? vou smiled 

for that ? 
Well, let smiles buy me ! have you 

more to spend ? 
While hand and eye and something 

of a heart 
Are left me, work's my ware, and 

what's it worth ? 
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me 

sit 



80 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB. 



The gray remainder of the evening 

out, 
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
How I could paint, were I but back 

in France, 
One picture, just one more — the Vir- 
gin's face. 
Not your's this time ! I want you at 

my side 
To hear them — that is, Michel Ag- 

nolo — 
Judge all I do and tell you of its 

worth. 
"Will you ? To-morrow satisfy your 

friend. 
I take the subjects for his corridor, 
Finish the portrait out of hand — 

there, there, 
And throw him in another thing or 

two 
If he demurs : the whole should prove 

enough 
To pay for this same cousin's freak. 

Beside, 
What's better and what's all I care 

about. 
Get you the thirteen scudi for the 

ruff! 
Love, does that please you ? Ah, but 

what does he, 
The cousin ! what does he to please 
you more ? 

I am grown peaceful as old age to- 
night. 
I regret little, I would change still 

less. 
Since there my past life lies, why 

alter it ? 
The very wrong to Francis! — it is 

true 
I took his coin, was tempted and com- 
plied. 
And built this house and sinned, and 

all is said. 
My father and my mother died of 

want. 
Well, had I riches of my own ? you 

see 
How one gets rich ! Let each one 

bear his lot. 
They M-ere born poor, lived poor, and 

poor they died : 
And I have labored somewhat in my 

time 
And not been paid profusely. Some 

good son 
Paint my two hundred pictures — let 

him try I 



No doubt, there's something strikes a 

balance. Yes, 
You loved me quite enough, it seems 

to-night. 
This must suffice me here. What 

would one have ? 
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one 

more chance — 
Four great walls in the New Jerusa- 
lem, 
Meted on each side by the angel's 

reed. 
For Leonard, Kafael, Agnolo, and me 
To cover — the three first without a 

wife. 
While I have mine ! So — still they 

overcome 
Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I 

choose. 

Again the cousin's whistle ! Go, 
my love. 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS 
TOMB AT SAINT PRAX- 
EDS CHURCH. 

[ROME, 15—.] 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity ! 

Draw round my bed : is Ansehn keep- 
ing back ? 

Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I 
know not ! Well — 

She, men would have to be your 
mother once. 

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she 
was ! 

What's done is done, and she is dead 
beside. 

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop 
since. 

And as she died so must we die our- 
selves. 

And thence ye may perceive the 
world's a dream. 

Life, how and what is it? As here I 
lie 

In this state-chamber, dying by de- 
grees. 

Hours and long hours in the dead 
night, I ask 

" Do I live, am I dead ? " Peaeer 
peace seems all. 



THE BfSrrOP ORDERS HIS TOMB. 



81 



Saint Praxed's ever was the church 

for peace ; 
And so, about this toiub of mine. I 

fouglit 
With tooth and nail to save my niche, 

ye know : 

— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite 

my care ; 
Shrewd was that snatch from out the 

cornisr South 
He graced his carrion with, God curse 

the same ! 
Yet still my niche is not so cramped 

but thence 
One sees the pulpit on the epistle- 
side. 
And somewhat of the choir, those 

silent seats, 
And up into the aery dome where live 
Tlie angels, and a sunbeam's sure to 

lurk ; 
And I shall fill my slab of basalt 

there, 
And 'neath my tabernacle take my 

rest, 
"With those nine columns round me, 

two and two, 
The odd one at my feet where Anselm 

stands : 
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, 

the ripe 
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty 

pulse. 

— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion- 

stone. 
Put mo where I may look at him ! 

True peach, 
Rosy and flawless : how I earned the 

prize ! 
Draw close : that conflagration of my 

church 

— What then ? So nuich was saved 

if aught were missed ! 
My sons, ye would not be mv death? 

Go dig 
The white-grape vineyard where the 

oil-press stood, 
Droi") water gently till the surface 

sink. 
And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know 

not, I ! . . . 
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves 

soft. 
And corded up in a tight olive-frail. 
Some lump, ah God, of lapis (azitli, 
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the 

nape. 
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's 

breast . . . 



Sons, all have I bequeathed you, 

villas, all. 
That brave Frascati villa with its 

bath, 
So, let the blue lump poise between 

my knees. 
Like God the Father's globe on both 

his bands 
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so 

f?ay. 
For Gandolf shall not choose but see 

and burst ! 
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our 

years : 
Man goeth to the grave, and where is 

he? 
Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? 

Black — 
'Twas ever antique-black I meant ! 

How else 
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come 

beneath? 
The bass-relief in bronze ye promised 

me, 
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, 

and perchance 
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or 

so. 
The Saviour at his sermon on the 

mount. 
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one 

Pan 
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last 

garment off, 
And Moses with the tables . . . but I 

know 
Ye mark m(; not ! What do they 

whisper thee. 
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, 

ye hope 
To revel down my villas wlsile I gasp 
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy 

travertine 
Which Gan(lf)lf from his tomb-top 

chuckles at ! 
Nay, boys, ve love me — all of jasper, 

then ! 
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest 

I grieve 
IMy batii nuist needs be left behind, 

alas ! 
One block, pure green as a pistachio- 
nut, 
There's plenty jasper somewhere in 

the world — 
And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to 

pray 
Horses for ye, and brown Greek 

manuscripts. 



82 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPrS. 



And mistresses with great sinootli 
marbly lirahs? 

— That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's 

every word. 

No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second 
line — 

Tnlly, my masters ? Ulpian serves 
his need ! 

And then how I shall lie through cen- 
turies, 

And hear the blessed mutter of the 
mass. 

And see God made and eaten all day 
long. 

And feel the stead}' candle-flame, and 
taste 

Good strong thick stupefying incense- 
smoke ! 

For as I lie here, hours of the dead 
night, 

Dying in state and by such slow de- 
grees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a 
crook, 

And stretch my feet forth straight as 
stone can point. 

And let the bedclothes, for a mort- 
cloth, drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's 
work: 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and 
strange thoughts 

Grow, with a certain humming in my 
ears, 

About the life before I lived this life, 

And this life too, popes, cardinals, 
and priests, 

Saint Praxed at his sermon on the 
mount, 

Your tall pale mother with her talk- 
ing eyes, 

And new-found agate urns as fresh 
as day. 

And marble's language, Latin pure, 
discreet, 

— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our 

friend ? 



NoTully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! 

Evil and brief hath been my pilgrim- 
age. 

All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the 
Pope 

My villas ! Will ye ever eat my 
heart? 

Ever your eyes were as a lizard's 
quick, 

They glitter like your mother's for 
my soul, 

Or ye would heighten mj impover- 
ished frieze. 

Piece out its starved design, and fill 
my A'ase 

With crrapes, and add a viijor and a 
Term, 

And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 

That in his struggle throws the thyr- 
sus down, 

To comfort me on my entablature 

Whereon I am 1o lie till I must ask 

"Do I live? am I dead?" There, 
leaA-e me, there ! 

For ye have stabbed me with ingrati- 
tude 

To death : ve wish it — God, ye wish 
it! Stone — 

Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy 
squares which s\\eat 

As if the corpse they keep were ooz- 
ing through — 

And no more lapis to delight the 
world ! 

Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers* 
there. 

But in a row: and, going, turn j'our 
backs 

— Ay, like departing altar-minis- 
trants, 

And leave me in my church, the 
church for peace, 

That I may watch at leisure if he 
leers — 

Old Gandolf at me, from his onion- 
stone. 

As still he envied me, so fair she 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. 



Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find ! 

1 can liardly misconceive you ; it wonhl prove me deaf and blind: 
But, although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind I 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPrS. 83 



Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. 
"What, Tliey lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, 
Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings ? 

III. 
Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call 
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where tliey kept the carniAal: 
I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. 



Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May ? 
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day. 
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say ? 

V. 

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — 

On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, 

O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his bead ? 

VI, 

Well, and it was graceful of them: they'd break talk off and afford 

— She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on his sword, 
While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? 

VII. 

What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh. 
Told them something? Those susijensions, those solutions — "Must we 

die?" 
Those commiserating sevenths — " Life might last ! we can but try ! " 

VII r. 
"Were you happy?" — "Yes." — "And are you still as happy?" — "Yes. 
And you ?" 

— "Then, more kisses !" — "Did I stop them, when a million seemed so 

few ? " 
Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to ! 

IX. 

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say ! 
" Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at grave and gay ! 
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play ! " 

X. 

Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one. 
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, 
Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun. 

XI. 

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, 
While I triumph o'er a secret wrung frou] nature's close reserve. 
In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. 

XII. 

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: 
" Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. 
The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned. 



84 



JTOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. 



" Yours for instance: j'ou know physics, something of geology, 
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree: 
Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be ! 



** As for Venice and her people, merely horn to hloom and drop, 
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop: 
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop ? 



*' Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. 
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold 
Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and grown old. 



HOW IT STRIKES A CON- 
TEMPORARY. 

I ONLY knew one poet in my life : 
And this, or something like it, was 
his way. 

You saw go up and down Vallado- 

lid, 
A man of mark, to know next time 

you saw. 
His very serviceable suit of black 
Was courtly once and conscientious 

still. 
And many might have worn it, though 

none did : 
The cloak, that somewhat shone and 

showed the threads. 
Had purpose, and the ruff, signifi- 
cance. 
He walked, and tapped the pavement 

with his cane, 
Scenting the world, looking it full in 

face : 
An old dog, bald and blindish, at his 

heels. 
They turned up, now, the alley h\ 

the chvirch, 
That leads no whither ; now, thej^ 

breathed themselves 
On the main promenade just at the 

wrong time. 
You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, 
Making a peaked shade blacker than 

itself 
Against the single window spared 

some house 
Intact yet with its mouldered Moor- 
ish work, — 



Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick 
Trying the mortar's temper 'tween 

the chinks 
Of some new shop a-building, French 

and tine. 
He stood and watched the cobbler at 

his trade. 
The man who slices lemons into drink, 
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the 

boys 
That vokmteer to help him turn its 

winch. 
He glanced o'er books on stalls with 

half an ej'e. 
And fl\--leaf ballads on the vendor's 

string. 
And broad-edge bold-print posters by 

the wall. 
He took such cognizance of men and 

things, 
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; 
If any cursed a woman, he took note; 
Yet stared at nobody, — you stared at 

him. 
And found, less to your pleasure than 

surprise. 
He seemed to know you and expect 

as much. 
So, next time that a neighbor's 

tongue was loosed. 
It marked the shameful and notorious 

fact 
We had among us, not so much a 

spy. 

As a recording chief-inquisitor, 

The town's true master if the town 

but knew ! 
We merely kept a goA'ernor for form, 
While this man walked about and 

took account 



HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. 



85 



Of all thought, said and acted, then 

went liorne, 
And wrote it fully to our Lord the 

King 
"Who has an itch to know things, he 

knows why, 
And reads them in his bedroom of a 

night. 
Oh, you might smile ! there wanted 

not a touch, 
A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly 

ease. 
As back into your mind the man's 

look came. 
Stricken in years a little, such a brow 
His eyes had to live under!— clear 

as flint 
On either side o' the formidable nose 
Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's 

claw. 
Had he to do with A.'s surprising 

fate ? 
"When altogether old B. disappeared, 
And young C. got his mistress, — was't 

our friend, 
His letter to the King, that did it 

all? 
What paid the bloodless man for so 

much pains? 
Our Lord the King has favorites mani- 
fold, 
And shifts his ministry some once a 

month ; 
Our city gets new governors at 

willies, — 
But never word or sign, that I could 

hear. 
Notified, to this man about the streets, 
The King's approval of those letters 

conned 
The last thing duly at the dead of 

night. 
Did the man love his office ? Frowned 

our Lord, 
Exhorting when none heard — "Be- 
seech me not ! 
Too far above my people, — beneath 

me ! 
I set the watch,— how should the 

people know ? 
Forget them, keep me all the more in 

mind ! " 
Was some such understanding 'twixt 

the two ? 

I found no truth in one report at 
least — 
That if you tracked him to liis home, 
down lanes 



Bej'ond the Jewry, and as clean to 

pace. 
You found he ate his supper in a 

room 
Blazing with lights, four Titians on 

the wall. 
And twenty naked girls to change his 

plate ! 
Poor man, he lived another kind of 

life 
In that new stuccoed third house by 

the bridge. 
Fresh-painted, rather smart than 

otherwise ! 
The whole street might o'erlook him 

as he sat. 
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's 

back. 
Playing a decent cribbage with his 

maid 
(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) 

o'er "the cheese 
And fruit, three red halves of starved 

winter-pears. 
Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, 
Ten, struck the church clock, straight 

to bed went he. 

My father, like the man of sense he 

was, 
Would point him out to me a dozen 

times ; 
" St — St," he'd whisper, " the Corrs- 

gidor ! " 
I had been used to think that person- 
age 
Was one with lacquered breeches, 

lustrous belt. 
And feathers like a forest in his hat. 
Who lilew a trumpet and proclaimed 

the news. 
Announced the bull-fights, gave each 

church its turn. 
And memorized the miracle in A'ogue! 
He had a great observance from us 

boys ; 
We were in error ; that was not the 

man. 

I'd like now, yet had haply been 
afraid. 

To have just looked, when this man 
came to die, 

And seen who lined the clean gay 
garret sides. 

And stood about the neat low truckle- 
bed. 

With the heavenly manner of reliev- 
ing guard. 



86 



PROTUS. 



Here had been, mark, the general-in- 

chief, 
Through a whole campaign of the 

world's life and death. 
Doing the King's work all the dim 

day long, 
In his old coat and up to knees in 

mud. 
Smoked like a herring, dining on a 

crust, — 
And, now the day was won, relieved 

at once ! 
No further show or need of that old 

coat. 
You are sure, for one thing ! Bless 

us, all the while 
How sprucely we are dressed out, 

you and I ! 
A second, and the angels alter that. 
Well, I could never write averse, — 

could you ? 
Let's to the Prado and make the most 

of time. 



PROTUS. 



Among these latter busts we count 
by scores. 

Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, 

Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose- 
thonged vest, 

Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the 
breast, — 

One loves a baby face, with violets 
there, 

Violets instead of laurel in the hair. 

As those were all the little locks could 
bear. 

Now read here. " Protus ends a pe- 
riod 
Of empery beginning with a god ; 
Born in the porphyry chamber at 

Byzant, 
Queensby his cradle, proud and min- 

i St rant : 
And if he quickened breath there, 

t'would like fire 
Pantingly through the dim vast realm 

transpire. 
A fame that he was missing, spread 

afar : 
The world, from its four corners, rose 

in war, 



Till he was borne out on a balcony 

To pacify the world when it should 
see. 

The captains ranged before him, one, 
his hand 

Made baby points at, gained the chief 
command. 

And day by day more beautiful he 
grew 

In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, 

While young Greek sculi^tors gaz- 
ing on the child 

Became, with old Greek sculpture, 
reconciled. 

Already sages labored to condense 

In easy tomes a life's experience : 

And artists took grave counsel to 
impart 

In one breath and one hand-sweep, 
all their art. 

And make his graces prompt as blos- 
soming 

Of plentifully watered palms in spring: 

Since well beseems it, whoso mounts 
the throne. 

For beauty, knowledge, strength, 
should stand alone, 

And mortals love the letters of his 
name." 

— Stop ! Have you turned two pages ? 

Still the same. 
New reign, same date. The scribe 

goes on to say 
How that same year, on such a month 

and day, 
" John the ' Pannonian, groundedly 

believed 
A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard 

hand reprieved 
The Empire from its fate the year 

before, — 
Came, had a mind to take the crown, 

and wore 
The same for six years (during which 

the Huns 
Kept off their fingers from us), till 

his sons 
Pat something in his liquor" —and 

so forth. 
Then a new reign. Stay — "Take at 

its just worth " 
(Subjoins an annotator) "What I give 
As hearsay. Some think, John let 

Protus live 
And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached 

man's age 
At some blind northern court ; made, 

first a page, 



MASTER IIUGUES OF SAXE-GOTffA. 



87 



Then tutor to the children ; last, of 
use 

About the hunting stahles. I deduce 

He wrote the little tract ' On worm- 
ing dogs,' 

Whereof the name in sundry cata- 
logues 

Is extant yet. A Protus of the race 

Is rumored to have died a monk in 
Thrace, — 

And, if the same, he reached senili- 
ty-" 

Here's John the smith's rough-ham- 
mered head. Great eye, 

Gross jaw and griped lips do what 
granite can 

To give you the crown-grasper. 
What a man ! 



MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE- 
GOTHA. 



Hist, hut a word, fair and soft ! 
Forth and he judged, Master 
Hugues ! 
Answer the question I've put you so 
oft : 
What do you mean by your moun- 
tainous fugues ? 
See, we're alone in ihe loft, — 



I, the poor organist here, 

Hugues, the composer of note. 
Dead though, and done with, this 
many a j'ear : 
Let's have a colloquy, something to 
quote, 
Make the world prick up its ear ! 



See, the church empties apace : 

Fast they extinguish tin; lights. 
Hallo there, sacristan ! Five min- 
utes' grace ! 
Here's a crauk pedal wants set- 
ting to rights, 
Balks one of Jioiding the base. 



IV, 

See, our huge house of the sounds, 

Hushing its hundreds at once, 
Bids the last loiterer back to his 
bounds ! 
— Oh, you may challenge th^m ! 
not a response 
Get the church-saints on their rounds! 



(Saints go their rounds, who shall 
doubt ? 
— March, with the moon to admire, 
Up nave, down chancel, turn tran- 
sept about. 
Supervise all betwixt pavement and 
spire, 
Put rats and mice to the rout — 



Aloys and Jurien and Just — 

Order things back to their place, 
Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks 
rust, 
Rub the church-plate, darn the sac- 
rament-lace, 
Clear the desk-velvet of dust.) 

VII. 

Here's your book, younger folks 
shelve ! 
Played I not off-hand and ruii- 
"^ningly. 
Just now, your masterpiece, hard 
number twelve ? 
Here's what should strike, could 
one handle it cunningly : 
Help the axe, give it a helve ! 



Page after page as I played. 

Every bar's rest, where one wipes 
Sweat from one's brow, I looked up 
and surveyed, 
O'er my three claviers, N-on forest 
of pipes 
Whence you still peeped in the shade. 



Sure you were wishful to speak, 

You, with brow ruled like a score. 
Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each 
cheek. 
Like two great breves, as they 
wrote them of yore. 
Each side that bar, your straight beak! 



88 



MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTffA. 



X. 

Sure you said — "Good, the mere 
notes ! 
Still, could'st thou take my intent, 
Know what procured me our Com- 
pany's votes — 
A master were lauded and sciolists 
shent, 
Parted the sheep from the goats ! " 

XI. 

Well then, speak up, never flinch ! 

Quick, ere my candle's a snuff 
— Burnt, do you see ? to its uttermost 
inch — 
I believe in you, but that's not 
enough : 
Give mv conviction a clinch ! 



First you deliver your phrase 

— Nothing propound, that I see, 
Fit in itself for much blame or much 
praise — 
Answered no less, where no answer 
needs be : 
Off start the Two on their ways. 



Straight must a Third interpose. 

Volunteer needlessly help ; 
In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in 
his nose. 
So the cry's open, the kennel's 
a-yelp, 
Argument's hot to the close. 



One dissertates, he is candid ; 
Two must discept, — has distin- 
guished ; 
Three helps the couple, if ever yet 
man did ; 
Four protests ; Five makes a dart at 
the thing wislied : 
Back to One, goes the case bandied. 

XV. 

One says his say with a difference ; 
More of expounding, explaining ! 
All now is wrangle, abuse, and vocif- 
erance ; 
Now there's a truce, all's subdued, 
self-restraining : 
Five, though, stands out all the stiffer 
hence. 



XVI. 

One is incisive, corrosive ; 
Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepi- 
tant ; 
Three makes rejoinder, exiiansive, 
explosive ; 
Four overbears them all, strident 
and St re pi tan t : 
Five . . . O Dauaides, O Sieve ! 

XVII. 

Now, they ply axes and crowbars ; 

Now, they prick pins at a tissue 
Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's 

Worked on tlie bone of a lie. To 
what issue ? 
Where is our gain at the Two-bars ? 

XV III. 

Est f 11(10, voir It ur rota. 
On we drift : where looms the dim 
port ? 
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contril> 
ute their quota ; 
Something is gained, if one caught 
but the import ; 
Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha ! 



What with affirming, denying, 

Hohling, risposting, subjoining. 
All's like . . . it's like . . . for an in- 
stance I'm trying . . . 
There ! See our roof, its gilt mould- 
ing and groining 
Under those spider-webs lying ! 



So your fugue broadens and thickens, 
Greatens and deepens and length- 
ens. 
Till we exclaim — " But where's 
music, the dickens ? 
Blot ye the gold, while your spider- 
web strengthens 
— Blacked to the stoutest of tickeus 'j* " 



xxi. 

I for man's effort am zealous : 

Prove me such censure unfounded ! 
Seems it surprising a lover grows 
jealous — 
Hojies 'twas for something, his or- 
gan-pipes sounded. 
Tiring three boys at the bellows ? 



ABT VOGLER. 



89 



XXII. 

Is it your moral of Life ? 

Such a web, simple and subtle, 
"Weave we on earth here in imj^otent 
strife, 
Backward and forward each throw- 
ing his shuttle, 
Death ending all with a knife ? 

XXIII. 

Over our heads truth and nature — 
Still our life's zigzags and dodges. 
Ins and outs, weaving a new legisla- 
ture — 
God's gold just shining its last 
where that lodges. 
Palled beneath man's usurpature. 

XXIV. 

So we o'ershroud stars and roses. 

Cherub and tiophj- and garland ; 
Nothings grow something which 
quietly closes 
Heaven's earnest eye : not a glimpse 
of the far land 
Gets through our comments and 
glozes. 

XXV. 

Ah, hut traditions, iuA'entions 

(Say we and make up a visage). 
So many men with such various in- 
tentions, 
Down the past ages, must know 
more than this age ! 
Leave we the web its dimensions ! 

XXVI. 

Who thinks Hugues wrote for the 
deaf. 
Proved a mere mountain in labor ? 



Better submit ; try again ; what's the 

clef ? 
'Faith, 'tis no trifle for pipe and for 

tabor — 
Four flats, the minor in F. 

XXVII. 

Friend, your fugue taxes the finger : 
Learning it once, who would lo.se 
it? 
Yet all the while a misgiving will 
linger. 
Truth's golden o'er us although we 
refuse it — 
Nature, through cobwebs we string 
her. 

XXVIII. 

Hugues ! I advise mea pcend 

(Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) 
Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, 
clear the arena ! 
Say the word, straight I unstop the 
full -organ. 
Blare out the 7node Pcdestrina. 

XXIX. 

While in the roof, if I'm riglit there, 
. . . Lo jon, the wick in the socket ! 
Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light 
tiiere ! 
Down it dips, gone like a rocket 
What, j-ou want, do you, to come una- 
wares, 
Sweeping the church up for first 

morning-prayers, 
And find a poor devil has ended his 

cares 
At the foot of your rotten-runged rat- 
riddled stairs ? 
Do I carry the moon in my pocket? 



ABT VOGLER. 



(AFTER HE HAS BEEX EXTEMPORTZIXG UrOX THE MUSICAL INSTRU- 
MENT OF Hia INVENTION.) 



Would that the structure braA'e. the manifold music I build, 
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to tlieir work, 

Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, 



90 ABT VOGLER. 



Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of aim, 

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, — 

Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffal)le Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved ! 

]i. 
"Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine. 

This which my keys in a crowd pressed and imi")ortuned to raise ! 
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, 

Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his i^raise ! 
And one would bury his brcnv with a blind plunge down to hell, 

Burrow a while and build, broad on the roots of things 
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, 

Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 

in. 

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was. 

Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, 
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, 

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest ; 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tij^s with fire, 

When a great illumination surprises a festal night — 
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 

Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. 

IV. 

In sight ? Not half ! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, 

Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I ; 
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth. 

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky : 
Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, 

Not a point nor ])eak but found, but fixed its wandering star ; 
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale nor pine, 

For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. 



V. 

Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow. 

Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh from the Protoplast, 
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, 

Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last ; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, 

But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new : 
What never had been, was now ; what was, as it shall be anon ; 

And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? for I was made perfect too. 



VI. 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul. 

All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, 
All through inusif; and me ! For think, had I iiainted the whol(*, 

Whv, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth. 
Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds from cause, 

Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told ; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 

Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled : — 



ABT VOGLER. 91 



VII. 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 

Existent beliind all laws : that made them, and, lo, they are ! 
Autl I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man. 

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. 
Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is naught ; 

It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said : 
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thought, 

And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow the head ! 

VIII. 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared : 

Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises tliat come too slow ; 
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, 

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 
Never to be again ! But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort to me ? 
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 

To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what was, shall be. 

IX. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name ? 

Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! 
"Wliat, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? 

Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good ! AVhat was, shall live as before ; 

The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound ; 
"What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more ; 

On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect round. 

X. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; 

Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, 

When eternity attirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; 

Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear it by and by. 

XI. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 

For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered or agonized ? 
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence ? 

AVhy rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? 
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear. 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woo : 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear ; 

The rest may reason and welcome ; 'tis we musicians know. 

XII, 

Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign : 

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again. 

Sliding by semitones, till I .sink to the minor, — yes. 
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground. 

Surveying a while the heights I rolled frotn into the deep ; 
Which, hark, I liave dared and done, for my resting-place is found. 

The C Major of tliis life : so, now I will try to sleep. 



92 



TWO JN TEE CAMPAGNA. 



TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 



I woJTDER do you feel to-day 
As I have felt since, hand in hand, 

We sat down on the grass, to stray 
In spirit better through the land, 

This morn of Rome and May ? 



n. 

For rae, I touched a thought, I know, 

Has tantalized me many times 
(Like turns of thread the spiders 
throw 
Mocking across our path), for 
rhymes 
To catch at and let go. 

III. 

Help me to hold it ! First it left 
The yellowing fennel, run to seed 

There," branching from the brick- 
work's cleft. 
Some o^d tomb's ruin: yonder weed 

Took up the floating weft, 



IV. 

"Where one small orange cup amassed 
Five beetles, — blind and green they 
grope 

Among the honey-meal : and last, 
Everywhere on the grassy slope, 

I traced it. Hold it fast ! 



The champaign with its endless fleece 
Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 

Silence and passion, joy and peace. 
An everlasting wash of air — 

Rome's ghost since her decease. 



Such life here, through such lengths 
of hours. 

Such miracles performed in play, 
Such primal naked forms of flowers. 

Such letting nature have her way 
While heaven looks from its towers ! 



vn. 

How say you ? Let us, O my dove. 
Let lis l)e unashamed of soul. 

As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 
How is it under our control 

To love or not to love ? 



VIII. 

I woiild that you were all to me. 

You that are just so much, no more. 

Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor 

free ! 

Where does the fault lie? What 

the core 

O' the wound, since wound must he ? 



I would I could adopt your will, 
See with your eyes, and set my 
heart 
Beating by j'ours, and drink my fill 
At your soul's springs, — your part, 
my part 
In life, for good and ill. 



No. I yearn upward, touch you 
close, 
Then stand away. I kiss your 
cheek. 
Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck 
the rose 
And love it more than tongue can 
speak — 
Then the good minute goes. 

XI. 

Already how am I so far 
Out of that minute ? Must I go 

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar. 
Onward, whenever light winds 
blow. 

Fixed by no friendly star ? 

XIT. 

Just when I seemed about to learn \ 
Where is the thread now ? Off 
again ! 

The old trick ! Only I discern — 
Infinite passion, and the pain 

Of finite hearts that yearn. 



"DE GUSTIBUS 



YoL'R ghost will walk, you lover of 
trees 
(If our loves remain). 
In an English lane. 
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with pop- 
pies. 



THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 



93 



Hark, tliose two in the hazel cop- 
pice — 
A boy and a girl, if the good fates 
please, 
Making love, say, — 
The happier they ! 
Draw yourself up from the light of 

the moon, 
And let them pass, as they will too 
soon, 
"With the beanflower's boon, 
And the blackbird's tune, 
And May, and June ! 



"What I love best in all the world 

Is a castle, precipice-encurled, 

111 a gash of the wind-grieved Apen- 

nine. 
Or look for me, old fellow of mine 
(If I get my head from out the mouth 
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's 

bands. 
And come again to the land of lands), 
In a seaside house to the farther 

South, 
"Where the baked cicala dies of 

drouth. 
And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — 

stands, 
By the many hundred years red- 
rusted. 
Rough, iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'er- 

crusted. 
My sentinel to guard the sands 
To the water's edge. For, what ex- 
pands 
Before the house, but the great 

oi)a(pie 
Blue breadth of sea without a break ? 
AVhile, in the house, forever crumbles 
Some fragment of the frescoed walls, 
From blisters where a scorpion 

sprawls, 
A girl liare-footed brings, and tumbles 
Down on the pavement, green-flesh 

melons, 
And says there's news to-day, — the 

king 
Was shot at, touched in the liver- 
wing, 
Goes with his B urbon arm in a sling: 
— She hopes they have not caught the 

felons. 
Italy, my Italy ! 

Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 
(When fortune's malice 
Lost her, Calais) 



Open my heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, " Italy." 
Such lovers old are I and she : 
So it always was, so shall ever be ! 



THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

A PICTURE AT FANO. 



Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou 
only leave 
That child, when thou hast done 
with him, for me ! 
Let me sit all the day here, that when 
eve 
Shall find performed thy special 
ministry. 
And lime come for departure, thou, 

suspending 
Thy flight, may'st see another child 
for tending. 
Another still to quiet and retrieve. 

II. 

Then I shall feel thee step one step, 
no more. 
From where thou standest now, to 
where I gaze. 
— And suddenly my head is covered 
o'er 
With tho^e wings, white above the 
child who prays 
Now on that tomb — and I shall feel 

thee guarding 
Me, out of all the world; for me, dis- 
cai-ding 
Yon heaven thy home, that waits 
and opes its door. 

III. 
I would not look up thither past thy 
head 
Because the door opes, like that 
child, I know. 
For I should have thy gracious face 
instead. 
Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou 
bend me low 
Like him, and lay, like his, raj' hands 

together, 
And lift them up to pray, and gently 
tether 
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy 
garment's spread ? 



94 



EVELYN HOPE. 



If this was ever granted, I would 
rest 
My head beneath thine, while thy 
healing hands 
Close-covered both my eyes beside 
thy breast, 
Pressing the brain which too much 
thought expands, 
Back to its proper size again, and 

smoothing 
Distortion down till every nerve had 
soothing, 
And all lay quiet, happy, and sup- 
pressed. 



How soon all worldly wrong would 
be repaired ! 
I think how I should view the 
earth and skies 
And sea, when once again my brow 
was bared 
After thy healing, with such differ- 
ent eyes. 
O world, as God has made it ! All is 

beauty : 
And knowing this is love, and love is 
duty. 
What further may be sought for or 
declared? 



Guercino drew this angel T saw 
teach 
(Alfred, dear friend !) —that little 
child to pray, 
Holding the little hands up, each to 
each 
Pressed gently, — with his own 
head turned away 
Over the earth where so much lay be- 
fore him 
Of work to do, though heaven was 
opening o'er him. 
And he was left at Fano by the 
beach. 

VII. 

We were at Fano, and three times we 
went 
To sit and see him in his chapel 
there, 
And drink his beauty to our soul's 
content 
— My angel with me too : and since 
i care 



For dear Guercino's fame (to which in 
jiower 

And glory comes this picture for a 
dower. 
Fraught with a pathos so magnifi- 
cent) 

VIII. 

And since he did not work thus ear- 
nestly 
At all times, and has else endured 
some wrong — 
I took one thought his picture struck 
from me, 
And spread it out, translating it to 
song. 
My love is here. Where are you, dear 

old friend ? 
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's 
far end ? 
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. 



EVELYX HOPE. 



BEAUTirrL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 
She plucked that piece of geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 
Little has j'et been changed, I 
think : 
The shutters are shut, no light may 
pass 
Save two long rays through the 
hinge's chink. 



Sixteen years old when she died 1 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
name ; 
It was not her time to love ; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir, 
Ti 11 God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of 
her. 

iir. 
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew — 



APPARENT FAILURE. 



95 



And just because I was thrice as old, 
And our paths in the workl diverged 
so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be 
tokl ? 
"We were fellow mortals, naught 
beside ? 



No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the 
love : 
I claim you still, for my own lore's 
sake!^ ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 
Through worlds I shall traverse, 
not a few : 
Much is to learn, much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking 
you. 

V. 

But the time will come, — at last it 
will. 
AYhen, Evelvn Hope, what meant 
(I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long 
still. 
That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber, 1 siiall 
divine, 
And your mouth of your own gera- 
nium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in 
fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's 
stead. 



I have lived (I shall say) so much 
since then. 
Given up myself so many times, 
Gaiued me the gains of various men, 
ilansaoked the ages, spoiled the 
clinics ; 
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full 
scope, 
Eitlua- I missed or itself missed me: 
Andlwantand Hudyou,E\elyn Hope! 
What is the issue ? let us see ! 



I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 
My heart seemed full as it could 
hold ; 
There was place and to spare for the 
frank young smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the 
hair's yoiing gold. 



So hush, — I will give you this leaf to 
keep : 
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold 
hand ! 
There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 
You will wake, andr emember, and 
understand. 



MEMORABILIA. 



Ah ! did you once see Shelley plain. 
And did he stop and speak to you, 

And did you speak to him again ? 
How strange it seems, and new ! 



II. 

But you were living before that, 
And also you are living after ; 

And the memory I started at — 
My starting moves j'our laughter ! 

III. 
I crossed a moor, with a name of its 
own 
And a certain use in the world, no 
doubt. 
Yet a bands-breadth of it shines alone 
'Mid the blank miles round about : 

IV. 

For there I picked up on the heather 
And there I put inside my breast 

A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 
Well, I forget the rest. 



APPARENT FAILURE. 

"We Khali soon lose a celebrated building." 
Paris IstWHpupcr. 



No, for I'll save it ! Seven years 
since, 
I passed through Paris, stopped a 
' day 
To see the baptism of your Prince ; 
Saw, made my bow, and went my 
way: 



96 



PRO SPICE. 



Walking the heat and headache off, 
1 took the Seine-side, you surmise, 
Thouglit of the Congress, Gortscha- 
koff, 
Cavoiir's appeal and Buol's replies, 
So sauntered till — what met my 
eyes ? 



Only the Doric little Morgue ! 
The dead-house where you show 
your drowned : 
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the 
Sorgue, 
Your Morgue has made the Seine 
renowned. 
One pays one's debt in such a case ; 
I plucked up heart and entered, — 
stalked, 
Keeping a tolerable face 

Compared with some whose cheeks 
were chalked : 
Let Them ! No Briton's to be 
balked ! 

HI. 
First came the silent gazers ; next, 
A screen of glass, we're thankful 
for; 
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's 
text. 
The three men who did most abhor 
Their life in Paris yesterday, 

So killed tiiemselves : and now, 
enthroned 
Each on his copper couch, they lay 

Fronting me, waiting to be owned. 
I thought, and think, their sin's 
atoned. 



Poor men, God made, and all for 
that ! 
The reverence struck me ; o'er each 
head 
Religiously was hung its hat. 
Each coat dripped by the owner's 
bed, 
Sacred from touch : each had his 
berth, 
His bounds, bis proper place of 
rest, 
"Who last night tenanted on earth 
Some arch, where twelve such slept 
abreast, — 
Unless the plain asphalte seemed 
best. 



How did it happen, my poor boy ? 

You wanted to be Buona{)arte 
And have the Tuileries lor toy. 

And could not, so it broke your 
heart ? 
You, old one by his side, I judge, 

Were, red as blood, a socialist, 
A leveller ! Does the Empire grudge 

You've gained what no Bepublit 
missed ? 
Be quiet, and unclinch your fist I 



And this — why, he was red in vain, 

Or black, — poor fellow that is blue ! 
What fancy was it, turned your brain ? 

Oh, women were the prize for you ! 
Money gets women, cards and dice 

Get money, and ill-luck gets just 
The copper conch and one clear nice 

Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, 
The right thing to extinguish lust ! 



It's wiser being good than bad ; 

It's safer being meek than fierce : 
It's fitter being sane tlian mad. 

Isly own hope is, a sun will pierce 
The thickest cloud earth ever 
stretched ; 
That, after Last, returns the First, 
Though a wide compass round be 
fetched ; 
That what began best, can't end 
worst. 
Nor wiiat God blessed once, prove 
accurst. 



PROSPICE. 



Fear death? — to feel the fog in my 
throat, 
The mist in my face. 
When the snows begin, and the blasts 
denote 
I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of 
the storm. 
The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a 
visible form. 
Yet the strong man must go : 



'' CniLDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME. 



97 



For the journey is done and the sum- 
mit attained, 
And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the 
guerdon be gained, 
The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight 
more, 
The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged 
ni\' eyes, and forbore, 
And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare 
like my peers 
The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
life's arrears 
Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best 
to the brave, 
The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend- 
voices that rave. 
Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
Shall cliange, shall become first a 
peace out of pain. 
Then a liglit, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasj) 
thee again, 
And with God be the rest ! 



«CHILDE ROLAXD TO THE 
DARK TOWER CAME." 

(See Edgar's song in " Lear.") 

I. 

My first thought was, he lied in every 
word, 
That hoary cripple, with malicious 

eye 
Askance to watch the working of 
his lie 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to 

afP(jrd 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed 
and scored 
Its edge, at one more victim gained 
thereby. 

II. 
What else should he be set for, with 
his staff? 
What, save to waylay with his lies, 
insnare 



All travellers who might find him 
posted there, 
And ask the road ? I guessed what 

skull-like laugh 
Would break, what crutch gin write 
my epitaph 
For pastime in the dusty thorough- 
fare, 

irr. 
If at his counsel I should turn a.side 
Into that ominous tract which, all 

agree. 
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acqui- 
escingly 
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride 
Nor ho[)e rekindling at the end de- 
scried, 
So much as gladness that some end 
might be. 



IV. 

For, what with my whole world-wide 
wandering. 
What with my search drawn out 

through years, my hope 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 
With that obstreperous joy success 

would bring, — 
I haixlly tried now to rebuke the 
spring 
My heart made, finding failure in 
its scope. 



As when a sick man very near to 
death 
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin 

and end 
The tears, and takes the farewell of 
each friend. 
And hears one bid the other go, draw 

breath. 
Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," 
he saitb, 
"And the blow fallen no grieving 
can amend " ) ; 



vr. 
While some discuss if near the other 
graxes 
Be room enough for this, and when 

a day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse 
away. 
With care about the banners, scarves, 
and staves : 



98 



'' CHJLDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME: 



And still the man hears all, and only 
craves 
He may not shame such tender love 
and stay. 

\TL. 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this 
qiiest. 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, 

been writ 
So many times among " The Band " 
— to wit, 
The knights who to the Dark Tower's 

search addressed 
Their steps — that just to fail as they, 
seemed best, 
And all the doubt was now — should 
I be fit ? 

Till. 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from 
him. 
That liateful cripple, out of his high- 
way 
Into the path he pointed. All the 
day 
Had been a dreary one at best, and 

dim 
"Was settling to its close, yet shot one 
grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its 
estray. 

IX. 

For mark ! no sooner was I fairly 
found 
Pledged to the plain, after a pace 

or two. 
Than, pausing to throw backward 
a last view 
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone ; gray 

plain all round : 
Nothing but plain to the horizon's 
bound. 
I might go on : naught else remained 
to do. 

X. 

So, on I went. I think I never saw 
Such starved ignoble nature ; noth- 
ing throve : 
For flowers — as well expect a ce- 
dar grove ! 
But cockle, spurge, according to their 

law 
Might propagate their kind, with none 
to awe. 
You'd think ; a burr had been a 
treasure trove. 



No ! penury, inertness, and grimace, 
In some strange sort, were the 

land's portion. "See 
Or shut your eyes," said Nature 
l)eevishly, 
" It nothing skills : I cannot help my 

case : 
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must 
cure this place. 
Calcine its clods and set my prison- 
ers free." 

XII. 

If there pushed any ragged thistle- 
stalk 
Above its mates, the head was 

chopped ; the bents 
Were jealous else. What made 
those holes and rents 
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, 

bruised as to balk 
All hope of greenness ? 'tis a brute 
must walk 
Bashing their life out, with a brute's 
intents. 

XIIT. 

As for the grass, it grew as scant as 
hair 
In lepi'osy : thin dry blades pricked 

the mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded 
up with blood. 
One stiff blind horse, his every bono 

a-stare. 
Stood -Stupefied, however he came 
there : 
Thn-.&t out past service from the 
Devil's stud ! 

XIV. 

Alive ? he might be dead for aught I 
know. 
With that red gaunt and colloped 

neck a-strain. 
And shut eyes underneath the rusty 
mane ; 
Seldom went such grotesqueness 

with such woe ; 
I never saw a brute I hated so ; 
He must be wicked to deserve such 
pain. * 

XV. 

I shut my eyes and turned them on 
my "heart. 
As a niau calls for wine before he 
fiirhts. 



CHJLDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME:' 



99 



I asked one draught of earlier, liap- 
pier sights, 
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 
Think first, fight afterwards — the 
soldier's art : 
One taste of the old time sets all to 
rights. 

XTI. 

Not it ! I fancied Cuthhert's redden- 
ing face 
Beneath its garniture of curly gold. 
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him 
fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place. 
That way he used. Alas, one night's 
disgrace ! 
Out went my heart's new fire and 
left it cold. 

XVII. 

Giles then, the soul of honor — there 
he stands 
Frank as ten years ago when 

knighted first.' 
"What lionest man shoidd dare (he 
said) he durst. 
Good — hut the scene shifts — faugh ! 

what hangman hands 
Pin to his breast a parchment ? His 
own hands 
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon 
and curst ! 

XVIII. 

Better this present than a past like 
that ; 
Back therefore to my darkening 

path again ! 
No sound, no sight as far as eye 
could strain. 
Will the night send a howlet or a hat ? 
I asked : when something on tbe dis- 
mal flat 
Came to arrest my thoughts and 
change their train. 

• XIX. 

A sudden little river crossed my path 
As unexpected as a serpent comes. 
No sluggish tide congenial to the 
glooms ; 
This, as it frothed hy, might have 

been a bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see 
the wrath 
Of its black eddy bespate with 
flakes and spumes. 



So petty yet so spiteful ! All along. 
Low scrubby alders kneeled down 

over it ; 
Drenched willows flung them head- 
long in a fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : 
The river which had done them all 
the wrong, 
Whate'er that was, rolled by, de- 
terred no whit. 

XXI. 

Which, while I forded, — good saints, 
how I feared 
To set my foot upon a dead man's 

cheek. 
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust 
to seek 
For hollows, tangled in his hair or 

beard ! 
— It may have been a water-rat I 
speared, 
But, ugh ! it sounded like a baby's 
shriek. 

XXII. 

Glad was I when I reached the other 
bank. 
Now for a better country. Vain 

presage ! 
Who were the strugglers, what war 
did they wage 
Whose savage trample thus could 

pad the dank 
Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned 
tank. 
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — 

XXIII. 

The fight must so have seemed in that 
fell cirque. 
What penned them there, with all 

the iilain to choose ? 
No footprint leading to that horrid 
me\A-s, 
None out of it. Mad brewage set to 

work 
Their brains, no doubt, like galley- 
slaves the Turk 
Pits for his jmstime. Christians 
against Jews. 

XXIV. 

And more than that — a furlong on — 
why, there ! 
What had use was that engine for, 
that wheel, 



100 



CnTLDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME: 



Or brake, not wheel — that harfow 
fir to reel 
Men's 1 todies out like silk? with all 

'he air 
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left una- 
ware, 
Or brought to sharpen its rusty 
teeth of steel. 



XXV. 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, 
once a wood, 
Next a marsh, it would seem, and 

now mere earth 
Desperate and done with ; (so a fool 
finds mirth. 
Makes a thing and then mars it, till 

his mood 
Changes and off he goes ! ) within a 
rood — 
Bog, cla^'-, and rubble, sand and 
stark black dearth. 



xxvr. 
Now blotches rankling, colored gaj^ 
and grim, 
Now patches where some leanness 

of the soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like 
boils ; 
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft 

in him 
Like a distorted mouth that splits its 
rim 
Gaping at death, and dies while it 
recoils. 

XXVIT. 

And just as far as ever from the 
end : 
Naught in the distance but the even- 
ing, naught 
To point my footstep farther! At 
the thought, 
A great bhick bird, Apollyon's bosom 

friend. 
Sailed itast, nor beat his wide wing 
dragon-penned 
That brushed my cap — perchance 
the guide I sought. 

xxviir. 
For, looking up, aware I somehow 
grew, 
'Spite of tlie dusk, the- plain had 
given place 



All round to mountains — with such 
name to grace 
Mere ugly heights and heaps now 

stolen in view. 
How thus they had surprised me, — 
solve it, you ! 
How to get from them was no 
clearer case. 

xxix. 

Yet half I seemed to recognize some 
trick 
Of mischief happened to me, God 

knows when — 
In a bad dream perhaps. Here 
ended, then. 
Progress this way. When, in the 

very nick 
Of giving up, one time more, came a 
click 
As wlien a trap shuts — jou're in- 
side the den 



Burningly it came on me all at once, 
This was the place ! those two hills 

on the right, 
Crouched like two bulls locked 
horn in horn in fight ; 
While to the left, a tali scalped moun- 
tain ... Dunce, 
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce. 
After a life s^jent training for the 
sight ! 

xxxr. 
What in the midst lav but the Tower 
itrielf? 
The round squat turret, blind as 

the fool's heart. 
Built of brown stone, without a 
counterpart 
In the wlioh; world. The tempest's 

mocking elf 
Points to the shipman thus the unseen 
shelf 
He strikes on, only when the tim- 
bers start. • 

xxxir. 
Not see ? because of night perhaps ? — 
why, day 
Came back again for that ! before it 

left. 
The dying sunset kindled through 
a ('left : 
The hills, like giants at a hunting, 
lay, 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 



101 



Chin upon hand, to see the game at 
hay, — 
" Now stab and end the creature — 
to the heft ! " 

XXXIII. 

Not hear? when noise was every- 
where ! it tolled 
Increasing like a bell. Names in 

my ears 
Of all the lost adventurers my 
peers, — 
How such a one was strong, and such 

was bold, 
And such was fortunate, yet each of 
old 
Lost, lost ! one moment knelled the 
woe of years. 

XXXIV. 

There they stood, ranged along the 
hill-sides, met 
To view the last of me, a living 

frame 
For one more picture ! in a sheet of 
flame 
I saw tliem and I knew them all. 

And yet 
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I 
set. 
And blew " Childe Roland to the 
Dark Toicer came." 



A GRAMMARIAN'S 
FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY AFTER THE RE\aVAL 
OF LEARXIXa IN EUROPE. 

Let us begin and carry up this corpse. 

Singing together. 
Leave we the common crofts, the 
vulgar thorpes. 
Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe in the bosom of the 
plain, 
Cared-for till cock-crow : 
Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row ! 
That's the appropriate country ; 
there, man's thought, 
Karer, intenser. 
Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it 
ought, 
Chafes in the censer. 



Leave we the unlettered plain its herd 
and crop ; 
Seek we sepulture 
On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 

Crowded with culture ! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest 
excels : 
Clouds overcome it ; 
No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's 

Circling its summit. 
Thither our path lies ; wind we up the 
heights ! 
Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life w^as the level's and tlie 
night's : 
He's for the morning. 
Step to a tune, square chests, erect 
each head, 

'Ware tlie beholders ! 
This is our master, famous, calm, and 
dead, 
Borne on our shoulders. 

Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling 
thorpe and croft 

Safe from the weather ! 
He, whom w^e convoy to his grave 
aloft. 

Singing together, 
He was a man born with thy face and 
throat. 
Lyric Apollo ! 
Long he lived nameless : how should 
sjiring take note 
Winter would follow ? 
Till lo, the little touch, and youth 
was gone ! 
Cramped and diminished, 
Moaned he, " New measures, other 
feet anon ! 
" My dance is finished ? " 
No, that's tiie world's way; (keep the 
mountain side. 
Make for the city !) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on 
with pride 
Over men's pity ; 
Left play for work, and grappled with 
the world 
Bent on escaping : 
" What's in the scroll," quoth he, 
" thmi keepest furled ? 
Show me their shaping, 
Theirs who most studied man, the 
bare", and sage, — 
Give ! " — So, he gowned him. 
Straight got by heart that book to its 
last page : 
Learned, we found him. 



102 



A GRA.\r MARIAN'S FUNERAL. 



Yea, l)ut we found him bald too, eyes 
like lead, 
Accents uncertain : 
"Time to taste life,'" another would 
have said, 
" Up with the curtain ! " 
This man said rather, "Actual life 
comes next ? 
Patience a moment ! 
Grant I have mastered learning's 
crabbed text. 
Still there's the comment. 
Let me know all ! Prate not of most 
or least, 
Painful or easy ! 
Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up 
the feast, 
Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 

When he had learned it. 
When he had gathered all books had 
to give ! 
Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the 
parts — 
Fancy the fabric 
Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike 
fire from quartz. 
Ere mortar dab brick ! 

(Here's the town-gate reached ; 
there's the market-place 
Gaping before us.) 
Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 

(Hearten our cliorus !) 
That before living he'd learn how to 
live — 
No end to learning : 
Earn the means first — God surely 
will contrive 
Use for our earning. 
Others mistrust and say, " But time 



escapes 



Live now or never ! " 
He said, " What's time ? Leave Now 
for dogs and apes ! 
jNIan has Forev<'r. " 
Back to his book then : deeper 
drooped his head : 
Cdlriiliif^ racked him : 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of 
lead : 

Tunfiis attacked him. 
** Now, master, take a little rest ! " — 
not Ik; ! 
(Caution redoubled ! 
Step two abreast, the way winds 
narrowly !) 
Not a whit troubled. 



Back to his studies, fresher than at 
first. 

Fierce as a dragon 
He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred 
thirst) 
Sucked at the flagon. 
Oh, if we draw a circle premature. 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, 
sure 
Bad is onr bargain ! 
Was it not great? did not he throw 
on God 
(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly pe- 
riod 
Perfect the earthen ? 
Did not he magnify the mind, show 
clear 
Just what it all meant ? 
He would not discount life, as fools 
do here, 

Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing — heav- 
en's success 
Found, or earth's failure : 
" Wilt thou trust death or not ? " He 
answered, " Yes ! 
Hence with life's pale lure ! " 
That low man seeks a little thing to 
do, 
Sees it and does it : 
This high man, with a great thing to 
pursue. 
Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to 
one. 

His hundred's soon hit : 
This high man, aiming at a mil- 
lion, 
JSIisses an unit. 
That, has the world here — should he 
need the next, 

Let the world mind him ! 
This, throws himself on God, and un- 
perplexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death 
at strife, 

Ground he at grammar ; 
Still, through the rattle, parts of 
speech were rife : 

While he could stammer 
He settled Boti's business — let it 
be! — 
Properly based Onn — 
Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic 
Ve. 
Dead from the waist down. 



CLEON. 



103 



Well, here's the platform, here's the 
proper ])lace : 
Hail to your purlieus, 
All ye highfliers of the feathered race, 

Swallows and curlews ! 
Here's the top-peak ; the multitude 
below 
Live, for they can, there : 
This man decided not to Live but 
Know — 

Bury this man there ? 
Here— here's liis place, where mete- 
ors slioot, clouds form. 
Lightnings are loosened. 
Stars come and go ! Let joy break 
with the storm, 
Peace let the dew send ! 
Lofty designs must close in like ef- 
fects : 

Loftily lying, 
Leave him — still loftier than the 
world suspects, 
Living and dying. 



CLEON. 



•• As certain also of your own poets have 
said " — 

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled 

isles, 
Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea. 
And laugh their pride when the light 

wave lisps " Greece "), — 
To Protus in his Tyranny : much 

health ! 

They give thy letter to me, even 

now : 
I read and seem as if I heard thee 

speak. 
The master of thy galley still unlades 
Gift after gift ; they block my court 

at last 
And pile themselves along its portico 
Royal with sunset, like a thought of 

thee ; 
And one white she-slave, from the 

group dispersed 
Of black and white slaves (like the 

checker-work 
Pavement, at once my nation's work 

and gift. 
Now covered with this settle-down of 

doves) 



One lyric woman, in her crocus vest 
Woven of sea-wools, with her two 

white hands 
Commends to me the strainer and the 

cup 
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses 

mine. 

Well counselled, king, in thy mu- 
nificence ! 
For so shall men remark, in such an 

act 
Of love for him whose song gives life 

its joy. 
Thy recognition of the use of life : 
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate 
Tohel]) on life in straight ways, broad 

enough 
For vulgar souls, by ruling and the 

rest. 
Thou, in the daily building of thy 

tower, — 
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms 

of toil, 
Or through dim lulls of unapparent 

growth, 
Or when tlie general work, 'mid good 

acclaim, 
Climbed with the eye to cheer the 

architect, — 
Didst ne'er engage in work for mere 

work's sake : 
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring 

hope 
Of some eventual rest a-top of it. 
Whence, all the tumult of the i3uild- 

ing hushed. 
Thou first of men mightst look out to 

the East : 
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou saw- 

est the sun. 
For this, I promise on thy festival 
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, 
Making this slave narrate thy for- 
tunes, speak 
Thy great words, and describe thy 

royal face — 
Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives 

the most. 
Within the eventual element of calm. 

Thy letter's first requirement meets 

me here. 
It is as thou hast heard : in one short 

life 
T, Cleon, have effected all those things 
Thou wonderingly dost enumei*h,te. 
That epos on thy hundred plates of 

gold 



104 



CLEON. 



Is mine, and also mine the little chant 
So sure to rise from every tlshing- 

bark 
When, lights at prow, the seamen 

haul their net. 
The image of the sun-god on the 

phare. 
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is 

mine ; 
The Pojcile, o'er-storied its whole 

length. 
As thou didst hear, with painting, is 

mine too. 
I know the true proportions of a man 
And woman also, not observed before; 
And I have written three books on 

the soul. 
Proving absurd all written hitherto, 
And putting ijs to ignorance again. 
For music, — why,! have combined 

the moods, 
Inventing one. In brief, all arts are 

mine ; 
Thus much the people know and rec- 
ognize. 
Throughout our seventeen islands. 

Marvel not ! 
"We of these latter days, with greater 

mind 
Than our forerunners, since more 

composite, 
Look not so great, beside their simple 

way, 
To a judge who only sees one way at 

once. 
One mind-point and no other at a 

time, — 
Compares the small part of a man of 

us 
"With some whole man of the heroic 

age. 
Great in his way — not ours, nor 

meant for ours. 
And ours is greater, had we skill to 

know : 
For, what we call this life of men on 

earth. 
This sequence of the soul's achieve- 
ments here, 
Being, as I find much reason to con- 
ceive. 
Intended to be viewed eventually 
As a great whole, not analyzed to 

parts. 
But each part having reference to 

all,- 
How shall a certain part, pronounced 

complete. 
Endure effacement by another part ? 



Was the thing done? — then, what's 

to do again ? 
See, in the checkered pavement ojipo- 

site, 
Suppose the artist made a perfect 

rhomb, 
And next a lozenge, then a trape- 
zoid — 
He did not overlay them, superim- 
pose 
The new npon the old and blot it out. 
But laid them on a level in his work. 
Making at last a picture ; there it 

lies. 
So first the perfect separate forms 

were made. 
The portions of mankind ; and after, 

so. 
Occurred the combination of the 

same. 
For where had been a progress, other- 
wise ? 
Mankind, made up of all the single 

men, — 
In such a syntheris the labor ends. 
Now mark me ! those divine men of 

old Time 
Have reached, thou sayest well, each 

at one point 
The outside verge that rounds our 

faculty ; 
And where they reached, who can do 

more than reach ? 
It takes but little water just to toucli 
At some one point the inside of a 

sphere, 
And, as we turn the sphere, touch all 

the rest 
In due succession : but the finer air 
"Which not so palpably nor obviously. 
Though no less universally, can touch 
The whole circumference of that 

emptied sphere. 
Fills it more fully than the water 

did ; 
Holds thrice the weight of water in 

it.self 
Resolved into a subtler element. 
And vet the vulgar call the sphere 

first full 
Up to the visible height — and after, 

voi<l ; 
Not knowing air's more hidden prop- 
erties. 
And thus our soul, misknown, cries 

out to Zeus 
To vindicate his purpose in our life : 
Why stay we on the earth unless to 

grow? 



CLE ox. 



105 



Long since, I imaged, wrote the fic- 
tion out, 
That he or other god descended here 
And, once for all, showed simultane- 
ously 
What, in its nature, never can be 

shown 
Piecemeal or in succession ; showed, 

I say, 
The worth both absolute and relative 
Of all liis children from the birth of 

time, 
His instruments for all appointed 

work. 
I now go on to image, — might we 

hear 
The judgment which should give the 

due t4) each, 
Show where the labor lay and where 

the ease. 
And prove Zeus' self, the latent 

evei'vwhere I 
This is a dream : — but no dream, let 

us hojie. 
That years and days, the snmmers 

and the springs, 
Follow each other with nuwaning 

powers. 
The grapes which dye thy wine, are 

richer far 
Through culture, than the w ild wealth 

of the rock : 
The suave plum than the savage- 
tasted drupe ; 
The pastured honey-bee drops choicer 

sweet : 
The flowers turn double, and the 

leaves turn flowers : 
That young and tender crescent 

moon, thy slave, 
Sleeping upon her robe as if on 

clouds. 
Refines upon the women of my youth 
What, and the soul alone deteriorates ? 
I have not chanted verse like Homer, 

no — 
Nor swept string like Teri^ander, no — 

nor carved 
And iiainted men like Phidias and 

his friend : 
I am not great as they are, point by 

point. 
But I have entered into sympathy 
With these four, running these into 

one soul, 
Who, separate, ignored each others' 

arts. 
Say, is it nothing that I know them 

all ? 



The wild-flower was the larger ; I 

have dashed 
Rose-blood VLfton its petals, pricked 

its cup's 
Honey witli wine, and driven its seed 

to fruit. 
And show a better flower if not so 

large . 
I stand myself. Refer this to the 

gods 
Whose gift alone it is ! which, shall 1 

dare 
(All pride apart) upon the absurd 

pretext 
That such a gift by chance lay in my 

hand, 
Discourse of lightly or depreciate ? 
It might have fallen to another's 

hand : what then ? 
I pass too surely : let at least truth 

stay ! 

And next, of what thou followest 
on to ask. 
This being with me, as I declare, O 

king ! 
My works in all these varicolored 

kinds, 
So done by me, accepted so by men — 
Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's 

hearts) 
I must not be accounted to attain 
The very crown and pror)er end of 

life? 
Inquiring thence how, now life closeth 

up, 
I face death with success in my right 

hand ; 
Whether I fear death less than dost 

thyself 
The fortunate of men? "For" 
! (writest thou), 

I " Thou leavest much behind, while I 
; leave naught. 

j Thy life stays in the jwems men shall 

I The pictures men shall study ; while 
I my life, 

Complete and whole now in its power 
and joy, 
i Dies altogether with my brain and 
j arm, 

Is lost indeed ; since, what survives 

myself ? 
i The brazen statue to o'erlook my 
j gi-ave, 

Set on the promontory which I named. 

And that — some sui^iile courtier of 
i mv heir 



106 



CLE ON. 



Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, 

perhaps 
To fix the rope to, which best drags it 

down, 
I go then : triumph thou, who dost 

not go ! " 

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my 

whole mind. 
Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to 

muse 
Upon the scheme of earth and man in 

chief, 
That admiration grows as knowledge 

grows ? 
That imperfection means perfection 

bid, 
Keserved in part, to grace the after- 
time ? 
If, in the morning of philosophy. 
Ere aught had been recorded, nay 

perceived, 
Thou, with the light now in thee, 

couldst have looked 
On all earth's tenantry, from worm 

to bird, 
Ere man, her last, appeared upon the 

stage — 
Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, 

and deduced 
The perfectnessof others yet unseen. 
Conceding which, — had Zeus then 

questioned thee 
" Shall I go on a step, improve on 

this. 
Do more for visible creatures than is 

done?" 
Thou wouldst have answered, " Ay, 

by making each 
Grow conscious in himself — by that 

alone. 
All's perfect else : the shell sucks fast 

the rock. 
The fish strikes through the sea, the 

snake both swims 
And slides, forth range the beasts, 

the birds take tiiglit. 
Till life's mechanics can no farther 

go — 
And all this joy in natural life, is 

put. 
Like fire from off thy finger into each. 
So exquisitely i>erfect is the same. 
But 'tis pure fire, and they mere 

matter are : 
It has them, not they it ; and so I 

choose 
For man. thy last premeditated work 
(Xi I might add a glory to the scheme) 



That a third thing should stand apart 
from both, 

A quality arise witbin his soul, 

Which, intro-active, niade to super- 
vise 

And feel the force it has, may view it- 
self. 

And so be happy." Man might live 
at first 

The animal life : but is there nothing 
more ? 

In due time, let him critically learn 

How he lives ; and, the more he gets 
to know 

Of his own life's ada]itabilities. 

The more joy-giving will his life be- 
come. 

Thus man, who hath this quality, is 
best. 

But thou, king, hadst more reasona- 
bly said : 
"Let i^rogress end at once, — man 

make no step 
Beyond the natural man, the better 

beast. 
Using his senses, not the sense of 

sense ! " 
In man there's failure, only since he 

left 
The lower and inconscious forms of 

life. 
We called it an advance, the render- 
ing plain 
JNIan's spirit might grow conscious of 

man's life. 
And, bv new lore so added to the 

old. 
Take each step higlier over the brute's 

head. 
This grew rlie only life, the i>leasure- 

house. 
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of 

the soul, 
Which wbole surrounding flats of 

natural life 
Seemed onlv fit to yield subsistence 

to ; "^ 
A tower that crowns a country. But 

alas, 
The soul now climbs it just to perish 

there ! 
For thence we have discovered ('tis 

no dream — 
We know this, which we had not else 

perceived) 
That there's a world of capability 
For joy, spread round about us, meant 

ior us. 



CLFOX. 



107 



Invitino: us ; and still the soul craves 

all, 
And still the flesh replies, " Take no 

jot more 
Than ere thou clomhst the tower to 

look abroad ! 
Nav, so much less as that fatigue has 

brought 
Deduction to it." TTe struggle, fain 

to enlarge 
Our bounded physical recipiency, 
Increase our power, supply fresh oil 

to life, 
Repair the waste of age and sickness : 

no, 
It skills not ! life's inadequate to joy, 
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to 

take. 
They praise a fountain in my garden 

here 
Wherein a Xaiad sends the water-bow 
Thin from her tube : she smiles to see 

it rise. 
What if I tobl her, it is just a thread 
From that great river which the hills 

shut up, 
And mock her with my leave to take 

the same ? 
The artificer has given her one small 

tul»e 
Past power to widen or exchange — 

what lx)ots 
To know she might spout oceans if 

she could ? 
She cannot lift beyond her first thin 

thread : 
And so a man can use hut a man's 

joy 
While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus 

to lx>ast, 
" See, man, how happy I live, and de- 
spair — 
That I may be still happier — for thy 

use ! " 
If this were so, we could not thank 

our lord. 
As hearts beat on to doing : 'tis not 

so — 
Malice it is not. Ls it carelessness? 
Still, no. If care — where 's the sign ? 

I ask. 
And get no answer, and a:n"ee in 

sura, 
O king ! with thy profound discour- 
agement. 
Who seest the wider but to si?:h the 

more. 
Most jirogress is most failure : thou 

say est well. 



The last point now. Thou dost ex- 
cept a case — 
Holding joy not im]>nssible to one 
With artLst-gifts — to such a man as I 
Who leave l-ehind me living works 

indeed ; 
For, such a poem, such a painting 

lives. 
What? dost thou verily trip upon a 

word, 
Confoimd the accurate view of what 

joy is 
(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes 

than thine) 
With feeling joy ? confound the know- 
ing how ' 
And showing how to live (my faculty) 
With actually living ? — Otherwise 
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the 

king? 
Because in my great epos I display 
How divers men young, strong, fair, 

wise, can act — 
Is this as though I acte<l? if I 

paint. 
Carve the young Phoebus, am I there- 
fore young ? 
^lethinks I'm older that I bowed mv- 

self 
The many years of pain that taught 

me art ! 
Indeed, to know is something, end to 

prove 
How all this beauty might l)e en- 
joyed, is more : 
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is 

something too. 
Yon rower, ^\^til the moulded muscles 

there. 
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 
I can write love-odes : thy fair slave's 

an ode, 
I get to sing of love, when grown too 

gray 
For l)eing beloved : she turns to that 

young man. 
The rnuscles all a-ripple on his back. 
I know the joy of kingsliij) : well, 

thou art king ! 
"But," sayest thou — (and I marvel, 

I repeat. 
To find thee tripping on a mere word) 

"what 
Thou writest, paintest, stays ; that 

does not die. 
Sappho survives, because we sing her 

songs. 
And ^schylus, because we read his 

plays ! " 



108 



JNSTANS TYRANNUS. 



"Why, if tliey live still, let tbem come 

and take 
Thy slave in my despite, drink from 

thy cnp, 
Speak in my place. Thou diest while 

I survive ? 
Say rather that my fate is deadlier 

still, 
In this, that every da^^ my sense of 

joy 

Grows more acute, my soul (intensi- 
fied 

By power and insight) jnore enlarged, 
more keen; 

While every day my hair falls more 
and more. 

My hand shakes, and the hea^-y years 
increase — 

The horror quickening still from year 
to year, 

The consummation coming past es- 
cape, 

When I shall kuow most, and yet 
least enjoy — 

When all my works wherein I proA'e 
lay worth. 

Being present still to mock me in 
men's months, 

Alive still, in the i^hrase of such as 
thou, 

I, I the feeling, thinking, acting 
man, 

The man who loved his life so over- 
much. 

Shall sleep in my urn. It is so hor- 
rible, 

I dare at times imagine to my need 

Some future state revealed to us hy 
Zeus.. 

Unlimited in capability 

For joy, as this is in desire for joy, 

— To 'seek which, the joy-hunger 
forces us : 

That, stnng by straitness of our life, 
made strait 

On purpose to make prized the life at 
large — 

Fre(Ml by the throbbing impulse we 
call death. 

We burst there, as the worm into the 

«.y, 

Who, while a worm still, wants his 

wings. But no ! 
Zeus has not yet revealed it ; and alas, 
He must have done so, were it possi- 
ble ! 

Live long and happy, and in that 
thought die, 



Glad for what was ! Farewell. And 

for the rest, 
I cannot tell thy messenger aright 
Where to deliver what he bears of 

thine 
To one called Paulus ; we have heard 

his fame 
Indeed, it Christus be not one with 

him — 
I know not, nor am troubled much to 

know. 
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian 

Jew 
As Paulus proves to be, one circum- 
cised, 
Hath access to a secret shut from us ? 
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O 

king, 
In stooping to inquire of such an 

one. 
As if his answer could impose at all ! 
He writeth, doth he? well, and he 

may write. 
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars ! certain 

slaves 
Who touched on this same isle, 

preached him and Christ ; 
And (as I gathered from aby-stander) 
Their doctrine could be held by no 

sane man. 



INSTANS TYRANNUS. 



Of the million or two, more or less, 
I rule and possess, 
One man, for some cause undefined, 
Was least to my mind. 



I struck him, he grovelled of course — 

For, what was his force ? 

I pinned him to earth with my weight 

And persistence of hate ; 

And he lay, would not moan, would 

not curse. 
As his lot might be worse. 



"Were the object less mean, would 

he stand 
At the swing of my hand ! 
For obscurity helps him, and blots 
The hole where he squats." 



^.V EPISTLE. 



109 



So, I set my live wits on the sti-etch 

To inveigle the wretch. 

All in vain ! Gold and jewels I 

threw, 
Still he couched there perdue ; 
I tempted his blood and his tiesh, 
Hid in roses my mesh. 
Choicest cates'^and the flagon's best 

si^ilth : 
Still he kept to his filth. 



Had he kith now or kin, were access 

To his heart, did I press : 

Just a son or a mother to seize ! 

Ko such booty as these. 

Were it simply a friend to pursue 

'Mid my million or two. 

Who could pay me, in person or pelf, 

What he owes me himself ! 

No : I could not but smile through 

my chafe : 
For the fellow lay safe 
As his mates do, the midge and the 

liit, 
— Through minuteness, to wit. 



Then a humor more gTcat took its 

place 
At the thought of his face : 
The droop, the low cares of the 

mouth, 
The trouble uncouth 
'Twixt the brows, all that air one is 

fain 
To put out of its pain. 
And, " no ! " I admonished myself, 
*' Is one mocked by an elf. 
Is one bafHed by toad or by rat ? 
The gravamen's in that ! 
How the lion, who crouches to suit 
His back to my foot, 
Would admire that I stand in debate ! 
But the small turns the great 
If it vexes you, —that is the thing ! 
Toad or rat\-ex the king ? 
Though I waste half my realm to 

unearth 
Toad or rat, 'tis well worth ! " 



So, I soberly laid my last plan 

To extinguish the man. 

Round his creei>hole, ^^*ith never a 

break. 
Ran my fires for his sake ; 



Over-head, did my thunder combine 
^^'ith my imder-ground mine : 
Till I looked from my labor content 
To enjoy the event 



vir. 
When sudden . . . how think ve, the 

end ? 
Did I say " without friend " ? 
Say rather, from marge to blue marge 
The whole sky grew his targe 
With the sun's self for visible boss, 
While an Arm ran across. 
Which the earth heaved beneath like 

a breast. 
Where the wretch was safe prest ! 
Do you see ? Just my vengeance 

complete. 
The man sprang to his feet, 
Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, 

and prayed ! 
— So, / was ail-aid ! 



AX EPISTLE 

COXTAIXIXG THE STRAXGE MEDI- 
CAL EXPERIEXCE OF KARSHISH, 
THE ARAB PHYSICIAX. 

Karshish, the picker-up of learning's 
crumbs, 

The not-incurious in God's handi- 
work 

(This mau's-flesh he hath admirably- 
made, 

Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a 
paste, 

To coop up and keep down on earth 
a space 

That puff of vapor from his mouth, 
man's soul) 

— To Abib, all-sagacious in our art. 

Breeder in me of what poor skill I 
boast. 

Like me inquisitive how pricks and 
cracks 

Befall the flesh through too much 
stress and strain. 

Whereby the wily vapor fain would 
slip 

Back and rejoin its source before the 
term, — 

And aptest in contrivance (under 
God) 



110 



AN EPJSTLE. 



To baffle it by deftly stoppin.^ such : — 

The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at 
home 

Sends greeting (health and knowl- 
edge, fame with peace) 

Three samples of true snake-stone — 
rarer still, 

One of the other sort, the melon- 
shaped 

(But titter, pounded fine, for charms 
than drugs). 

And writeth now the twenty-second 
time. 

My journeyings were brought to 

Jericho : 
Thus I resume. Who, studious in 

our art. 
Shall count a little labor unrepaid ? 
I have shed sweat enough, left flesh 

and bone 
On man3^ a tlinly furlong of this land. 
Also, the countr^'-side is all on lire 
"With rumors of a marching hither- 
ward. 
Some say Vespasian cometh, some, 

his son. 
A black lynx snarled and pricked a 

tufted ear ; 
Lust of niv blood inflamed his 3'ellow 

balls : 
I cried and threw my staff, and he 

was gone. 
Twice have the robbers stripped and 

beaten me. 
And once a town declared me for a 

spy ; 

But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, 
Since this poor covert where I pass 

the night. 
This Bethany, lies scarce the distance 

thence 
A man with plague-sores at the third 

degree 
Kuns till he drops down dead. Thou 

laughest here ! 
'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and 

safe, 
To void the stuffing of my travel- 
scrip, 
And share with thee whatever Jewry 

yields. 
A viscid choler is observable 
In tertians, I was nearly bold to 

say ; 
And falling-sickness hath a happier 

cure 
Than our school wots of : there's a 

si)ider here 



Weaves no web, watches on the ledge 
of tombs. 

Sprinkled with mottles on an ash- 
graj^ back ; 

Take tive and drop them . . . but 
who knows his mind, 

The Syrian runagate I trust this to ? 

His service payeth me a sublimate 

Blown up his nose to help the ailing 
eye. 

Best wait : I reach Jerusalem at morn, 

There set in order my experiences. 

Gather what most deserves, aud give 
thee all — 

Or I might add, Juditia's gum-traga- 
canth 

Scales off in purer flakes, shines 
clearer-grained, 

Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the i5or- 
phyry. 

In fine exceeds our jiroduce. Scalp- 
disease 

Confounds me, crossing so with lep- 
rosy : 

Thou hadst admired one sort I gained 
at Zoar — 

But zeal outruns discretion. Here I 
end. 

Yet stay ! mv Svrian blinketh grate- 
fully, 
Protestetii his devotion is my price — 
Suppose I write what harms not, 

though he steal ? 
I half resolve to tell thee, j'et I blush, 
What set me off a-writing first of 

all. 
An itch I had, a sting to write, a 

tang ! 
For, be it this town's barrenness, — 

or else 
The Man had something in the look 

of him, — 
His case has struck me far more than 

'tis worth. 
So, pardon if — (lest presently I lose. 
In the great press of novelty at hand, 
The care and pains this somehow 

stole from me) 
I bid thee take the thing while fresh 

in mind. 
Almost in sight — for, wilt thou have 

the truth ? 
The very man is gone from me but 

now, 
Whose ailment is the subject of dis- 
course. 
Thus then, and let thy better wit 

help all ! 



AN EPISTLE. 



Ill 



'Tis but a case of mania : sub- 
induced 
By epilepsy, at the turning-point 
Of trance prolonged unduly some 

three days 
"When, by the exhibition of some drug 
Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art 
Unknown to me and which 'twere 

well to know. 
The evil thing, out-breaking, all at 

once, 
Left the man whole and sound of body 

indeed, — 
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates 

too wide. 
Making a clear house of it too sud- 

deuh% 
The first conceit that entered might 

inscribe 
Whatever it was minded on the wall 
So plainly at that vantage, as it were 
(First coiue, first served), that nothing 

sub>«equent 
Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls 
The just-returned and new-established 

soul 
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by 

heart 
That henceforth she will read or these 

or none. 
And first —the man's own firm con- 
viction rests 
That he was dead (in fact they buried 

him) 

— That h(^, was dead and then restored 

to life 
By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: 

— 'csayeth, the same bade " Rise," and 

he did rise. 
" Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt 

cry. 
Not so this figment ! — not, that such 

a fume, 
Instead of giving way to time and 

health, 
Should eat itself into the life of life. 
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, 

and all ! 
For see. how he takes up the after- 
life. 
The man — it is one Lazarus a Jew, 
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of 

age. 
The body's habit wholly laudable, 
As much, indeed, beyond the common 

health 
As he were made and put aside to 

show 
Think, could we penetrate by any drug 



And bathe the wearied soul and wor- 
ried flesh. 
And bring it clear and fair, by three 

days' sleep ! 
Whence has the man the balm that 

brightens all ? 
This grown man eyes the world now 

like a child. 
Some elders of his tribe, I should pre- 
mise, 
Led in their friend, obedient as a 

sheep. 
To bear my inquisition. While they 

spoke, 
Now sharply, now with sorrow, — told 

the case, — 
He listened not except I spoke to 

him. 
But folded his two hands and let 

them talk, 
Watching the flies that buzzed : and 

yet no fool. 
And that's a sample how his years 

must go. 
Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, 
Should find a treasure, — can he use 

the same 
With straitened habitude and tastes 

starved small, 
And take at once to his impoverished 

brain 
The sudden element that changes 

things, 
That sets the undreamed-of rapture 

at his hand, 
And puts the cheap old J03' in the 

scorned dust ? 
Is he not such an one as moves to 

mirth — 
Warily parsimonious, when no need, 
Wasteful as drunkenness at undue 

times ? 
All prudent counsel as to what befits 
The golden mean, is lost on such an 

one : 
The man's fantastic will is the man's 

law. 
So here — we call the treasure knowl- 

' edge, say. 
Increased bevond the fleshly facul- 
ty- 
Heaven opened to a soul while yet on 

earth. 
Earth forced on a soul's use while 

seeing heaven : 
The man is witless of the size, the 

sum. 
The value in proportion of all things, 
Or whether it be little or be much. 



112 



AN EPISTLE. 



Discourse to him of prodigious arma- 
ments 
Assembled to besiege his city now, 
And of the passing of a mule with 

gourds — 
'Tis one ! Then take it on the other 

side, 
Speak of some trifling fact, — he will 

gaze rapt 
"Witli stupor at its very littleness 
(Far as I see), as if in that indeed 
He caught prodigious import, whole 

results ; 
And so will turn to us the by-stauders 
In ever the same stupor (note this 

poiut). 
That we, too, see not with his opened 

eyes. 
Wonder and doubt come wrongly into 

Preposterously, at cross purposes. 
Should his child sicken unto death, — 

why, look 
For scarce abatement of his cheerful- 
ness, 
Or pretermission of the daily craft ! 
While a word, gesture, glance from 

that same cliild 
At play or in the school or laid 

asleep, 
Will startle him to an agony of fear, 
Exasperation, just as like. Demand 
The reason why — " 'tis but a word," 

object — " 
" A gesture " — he regards thee as our 

lord 
Who lived there in the pyramid alone, 
Looked at us (dost thou mind ?) when, 

being young, 
We both would unadvisedly recite 
Some charm's beginning, from that 

book of his. 
Able to bid the sun throb wide and 

burst 
All into stars, as suns grown old are 

wont. 
Thou and the child have each a veil 

alike 
Thrown o'er your heads, from under 

which ye both 
Stretch your blind hands and trifle 

with a match 
Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye 

know ! 
He holds on firmly to some thread of 

life — 
(It is the life to lead perforcedlv) 
Which runs across some vast, distract- 
ing orb 



Of glory on either side that meagre 

thread. 
Which, conscious of, he must not enter 

yet — 
The spiritual life around the eartlily 

life : 
The law of that is known to him as 

this. 
His heart and brain move there, his 

feet stay here. 
So is the man perplext with impulses 
Sudden to start off crosswise, not 

straight on. 
Proclaiming what is right and wrong 

across. 
And not along, this black thread 

through the blaze — 
"It should be" balked by "here it 

cannot be.'' 
And oft the man's soul springs into 

his face 
As if he saw again and heard again 
His sage that bade him "Rise," and 

lie did rise. 
Something, a word, a tick o' the blood 

within 
Admonishes : then back he sinks at 

once 
To ashes, who was very fire before, 
In sedulous recurrence to his trade 
Whereby he earneth him the daily 

bread ; 
And studiously the humbler for that 

pride. 
Professedly the faultier that he knows 
God's secret, while he holds the thread 

of life. 
Indeed the especial marking of the 

man 
Is prone submission to the heavenly 

will — 
Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 
'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the 

last 
For that same death which must re- 
store his being 
To equilibrium, body loosening soul 
Divorced even now by premature full 

growth : 
He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to 

live 
So long as God please, and just how 

God please. 
He even seeketh not to please God 

more 
(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as 

God please. 
Hence, I perceive not he affects to 

preach 



^.V EPISTLE. 



113 



The doctrine of his sect whate'er it 

be. 
Make proselvtes as madmen thirst to 

do : 
How can he give his neighbor the real 

ground, 
His own conviction ? Ardent as he 

is — 
Call his great truth a lie, why, still 

the old 
"Be it as God please" re-assureth 

hiui. 
I probed the sore as thy disciple 

sliould : 
"How, beast," said I, "this stolid 

carelessness 
Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her 

march 
To stamp out like a little spark thy 

town. 
Thy tribe, thy crazj- tale and thee at 

once?" 
He merely looked with his large eyes 

on me. 
The man is apathetic, you deduce ? 
Contrariwise, he loves both old and 

young. 
Able and weak, affects the very brutes 
And binls — how savl? flowers of 

the field — 
As a wise workman recognizes tools 
In a master's workshop, loving what 

they make. 
Thus is the man as harmless as a 

lamb : 
Only impatient, let him do his best, 
At ignorance and carelessness and 

sin — 
An indignation which is promptly 

curbed : 
As when in certain travel I have 

feigned 
To be an ignoramus in our art 
According to some preconceived de- 
sign, 
Aud happened to hear the land's pracT 

titioners 
Steeped in conceit sublimed by iguor 

ranee, 
Prattle fantastically on disease, 
Its cause and cure — and I must hold 

my jieace ! 

Thou wilt object — Why have I 

not pre this 
Sougnt. out the sage himself, the Naz^ 

arene 
"Who wrought this cure, inquiring at 

the source, 



Conferring with the frankness that 

befits ? 
Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned 

leech 
Perished in a tumult many years ago. 
Accused, — our learning's fate, — of 

wizardry. 
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 
And creed prodigious as described to 

me. 
His death, which happened when the 

earthquake fell 
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the 

loss 
To occult learning in our lord the 

sage 
Who lived there in the pyramid 

alone). 
Was wrou<xht by The mad people — 

that's their wont ! 
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, 
To his tried virtue, for miraculous 

help — 
How could he stop the earthquake ? 

That's their way ! 
The other imputations must be lies : 
But take one, though I loath to give 

it thee, 
In mere res^iect for any good man's 

fame. 
(And after all, our patient Lazarus 
Is stark mad ; should we count on 

what he says ? 
Perhaps not : tliough in writing to ^ 

leech 
'Tis well to keep back nothing of a 

case.) 
This man so cured regards the curer, 

then, 
As — God forgive me ! who but God 

himself, 
Creator and sustainer of the world. 
That came and dwelt in flesh on it 

a while ! 
— 'Sayeth that such an one was born 

and lived. 
Taught, healed the sick, broke bi-ead 

at his own house, 
Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught 

I know. 
And yet was . . . what I said nor 

choose repeat, 
And must have so avouched himself, 

in fact. 
In hearing of this very Lazarus 
Who saitii — but why all this of what 

he saitli ? 
Why write of trivial matters, things 

of price 



114 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 



Callin.G: at every moment for remark ? 
I noticed on the margin of a pool 
Blue-liowering borage, the Ak^ppo 

sort, 
Abonndetli, very nitrous. It is 

strange ! 

Thy pardon for this long and tedious 

case, 
AYhich, now that I review it, needs 

must seem 
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth ! 
Nor I myself discern in what is 

M'rit"^ 
Good cause for the peculiar interest 
And awe indeed this man has touched 

me with. 
Perhaps the journey's end, the weari- 
ness 
Had wrought upon me first. I met 

him thus : 
I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken 

hills 
Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out 

there cam.e 
A moon made like a face with certain 

sj^ots 
Multiform, manifold, and menacing: 
Tlien a wind rose behind me. So v»'e 

met 
In this old sleepy town at unaware, 
The man and I. I send thee what is 

writ. 
Eegard it as a chance, a matter risked 
To this ambiguous Syrian : he may 

lose. 
Or steal, or give it thee with equal 

good. 
Jerusalem's repose shall make 

amends 
For time this letter wastes, tliy time 

and njine ; 
Till when, once more thy pardon and 

farewell ! 

The very God! think, Abib ; dost 
thou think ? 

So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving 
too — 

So, through the thunder comes a hu- 
man voice 

Saying, " O heart I made, a heart beats 
here ! 

Face, my hands fashioned, see it in 
myself ! 

Thou hast no power nor may'st con- 
ceive of mine : 

But love I gave thee, with myself to 
love, 



And thou must love me who have 

died for thee ! " 
The madinaii saith He said so: it is 

str.mge. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; 

OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE 
ISLAND. 



"Thou thoughtcst that I was altogether 
such a one as thyself." 

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of 
day is best. 

Flat on his belly in the pit's much 
mire. 

With elbows wide, fists clinched to 
prop his chin. 

And, while he kicks both feet in the 
cool slush. 

And feels about his spine small eft- 
things course, 

Run in and out each arm, and make 
him laugh : 

And while above his head a pompion- 
plant. 

Coating the cave-top as a brow its 
e,ye, 

Creeps down to touch and tickle hair 
and beard, 

And now a flower drops with a bee 
inside. 

And now a fruit to snap at, catch and 
crunch, — 

He looks out o'er yon sea which sun- 
beams cross 

And recross till they weave a spider- 
web 

(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks 
at times), 

And talks to his own self, howe'er he 
please. 

Touching that other, whom his dam 
called God. 

Because to talk about Him, vexes 
— ha. 

Could He but know ! and time to vex 
is now. 

When talk is safer than in winter- 
time. 

Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 

In confidence he drudges ^t their 
task ; 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 



115 



And it is good to cheat the i>air, and 

gitje, 
I^etting the rank tongue blossomf into 

speech.] 

Setebos, Setehos, and Setebos ! 
Thinketh, He dwelleth 1' the cold o' 
the moon. 

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to 

match. 
But not the stars ; the stars came 

otherwise : 
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, 

such as tliat : 
Also this isle, what lives and grows 

thereon, 
And snaky sea which rounds and 

ends the same. 

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at 

ease : 
He hate«l that He cannot change His 

cold, 
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icv 

tish 
That longed to 'scape the rock-stream 

where she lived. 
And thaw herself within the luke- 
warm brine 
O' the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far 

amid, 
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm 

walls of wave : 
Only, she ever sickened, found re- 
pulse 
At the other kind of water, not her 

life 
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred 

o' the sun). 
Flounced back from bliss she was not 

born to breathe, 
And in her old bounds burie<l her 

despair, 
Hating aud loving warmth alike : so 

He. 

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, 
this isle, 

Trees and the fowls here, beast and 
creeping thing. 

Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a 
leech ; 

Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of 
foam. 

That float< and feeds : a certain bad- 
ger brown. 

He hath watched hunt with that 
slant white-wedge eye 



By moonlight ; and the pie with the 

long tongue 
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a 

worm. 
And says a plain word when she fijids 

her prize. 
But will not eat the ants ; the ants 

themselves 
That buihl a wall of seeds and settled 

stalks 
About their hole — He made all these 

and more, 
Made all we see, and us, in spite: 

how else ? 
He could not, Himself, make a second 

self 
To be His mate : as well have made 

Himself : 
He would not make what He mislikes 

or slights, 
An eyesore to Him, or not worth Hjs 

pains : 
But did, in envy, listlessness, or sport. 
Make what Himself would fain, in a 

manner, be — 
Weaker in most points, stronger in a 

few, 
Worthy, and yet mere playthings all 

the while. 
Things He admires and mocks too, — 

that is it. 
Because, so brave, so better though 

they be. 
It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 
Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into 

mash. 
Add honeycomb and pods, I have 

X>erceived, 
Which bite like finches when they 

bill and kiss, — 
Then, when froth rises bladdery, 

drink up all, 
Quick, quick, till maggots scamper 

through my brain : 
Last, throw me on my back i' the 

see<led thvme, 
And wanton, wishing I were bom a 

bird. 
Put case, unable to be what I wish, 
I yet could make a live bird out of 

clay : 
Would not I take clay, pinch my 

Caliban 
Able to fly ? — for, there, see, he hath 

wings, 
And great comb like the hoopoe's to 

admire. 
And there, a sting to do hi* foes of- 
fence. 



116 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 



There, and I will that he begin to 

live, 
Fly to von rock-top, nip me off the 

horns 
Of grigs high up that make the 

merry clin 
Saucy through their veined wings, 

and mind me not. 
In which feat, if his leg snapped, 

brittle clay, 
And he lay stupid-like, — why, I 

should laugh ; 
And if he, spying me, should fall to 

weep, 
Beseech me to be good, repair his 

wrong, 
Bid his poor leg smart less or grow 

again,— 
Well, as the chance were, this might 

take or else 
Not take my fancy : I might hear his 

cry, 
And give the manikin three legs for 

one, 
Or pluck tlie other off, leave him like 

an egg, 
And lessoned he was mine and merely 

clay. 
"Were tliis no pleasure, Ij'ing in the 

thyme. 
Drinking the mash, with brain be- 
come alive, 
Making and marring clay at will? 

So He. 

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor 

wrong in Him, 
Nor kind, nor cruel : He is strong and 

Lord. 
'Am strong myself compared to yon- 
der crabs 
That march now from the mountain 

to the sea ; 
'Let twenty pass, and stone the 

twenty-first, 
Loving not, hating not, just choosing 

so. 
'Say, the first straggler that boasts 

purple sjiots 
Shall join the tile, one pincer twisted 

off ; 
'Say, This bruised fellow shall receive 

a worm. 
And two worms he whose nippers 

end in red 
As it likes me each time, I do : so He. 

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' 
the main, 



Placable if His mind and ways were 

guessed, 
But rougher than His handiwork, be 

sure ! 
Oh, He hath made things worthier 

than Himself, 
And envieth that, so helped, such 

things do ntore 
Than He who made them ! What 

consoles Imt this? 
That they, unless through Him, do 

naught at all. 
And musfsubmit : what other use in 

things ? 
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder- 
joint 
That, blown through, gives exact the 

scream o' the jay 
When from her wing j-ou twitch the 

feathers blue : 
Sound this, and little birds that hate 

the jay 
Flock within stone's throw, glad their 

foe is hurt : 
Put case such pipe could prattle and 

boast forsooth 
" I catch the birds, I am the craftv 

thing, 
I make the cry my maker cannot 

make 
With his great round mouth ; he must 

blow through mine ! " 
Would not I smash it with mv foot? 

So He. 

But wherefore rough, why cold and 

ill at ease ? 
Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for 

that. 
What knows, — the something over 

Setebos 
That made Him, or Ke, may be, found 

and fought. 
Worsted, drove off and did to noth- 
ing, perchance. 
There may be something quiet o'er 

His head, 
Out of His reach, that feels nor joy 

nor grief, 
Since both derive from weakness in 

some way. 
I joy because the quails come ; would 

not joy 
Could I bring quails here when I have 

a minci : 
This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, 

doth. 
'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its 

couch, 



CAL/BA\ UPON SETEBOS. 



117 



But never spends mncli thought nor 

care that way. 
It may look up, work up, — the worse 

for those 
It works on ! "Careth but for Sete- 

bos 
The luany-haniled as a cuttle-fish, 
Who, making Himself feared through 

what He does. 
Looks up, first, and perceives he can- 
not soar 
To what is quiet and hath happy life ; 
Xext looks down here, and out of 

very spite 
Makes this a bauble-world to ape you 

real. 
These good things to match those, as 

hips do grapes. 
'Tis solace naaking baubles, ay, and 

sport. 
Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at 

his books 
Careless and lofty, lord now of the 

isle : 
Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad 

leaves, arrow-shaped, 
Wrote thereon, he knows what, pro- 
digious words : 
Has peeled a wand and called it by a 

name ; 
Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's 

roV)e 
The eyed skin of a supple ocelot : 
And hath an ounce sleeker than 

youngling mole, 
A four-legged seri>ent he makes cower 

and couch, 
Now snarl, now hold its breath and 

mind his eye. 
And saith she is Miranda and my 

wife : 
'Keejis for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill 

crane 
He bids go wade for fish and straight 

disgorge ; 
Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he 

snared, 
Blinded the eyes of, and brought 

somewhat tame. 
And split its toe-webs, and now pens 

the drudge 
In a hole o' the rock, and calls him 

Caliban ; 
A bitter heart that bides its time and 

bites. 
'Plays thus at being Prosper in a 

way. 
Taketh his mirth with make-believes : 

so He. 



His dam held that the Quiet made all 

things 
Which Setebos vexed only : 'holds 

not so. 
Who made them weak, meant wea'.c- 

ness He might vex. 
Had. He meant other, while His hand 

was in, 
Why not make horny eyes no thorn 

could prick, 
Or i)late my scalp with bone against 

the snow, 
Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and 

joint, 
Like an ore's armor ? Ay, — so spoil 

His sport ! 
He is the One now : only He doth all. 

'Saith, He may like, lierchancCj what 

profits Him. 
Ay, himself loves what does him 

good ; but why ? 
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded 

beast 
Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his 

nose. 
But, had he eyes, would want no 

help, would hate 
Or love, just as it liked him : He hath 

eyes. 
Also it pleaseth Setebos to work. 
Use all His hands, and exercise much 

craft. 
By no means for the love of what is 

worked. 
'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the 

world 
When all goes right, in this safe sum- 
mer-time, 
And he wants little, hungers, aches 

not miu'h, 
Than trying what to do with wit and 

strength. 
'Falls to make something : 'piled yon 

pile of turfs, 
And squared and stuck there squares 

of soft white chalk. 
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a 

moon on each, 
And set up endwise certain spikes of 

tree. 
And crowned the whole with a sloth's 

skull a-top. 
Found dead i' the woods, too hard 

for one to kill. 
Xo use at all i' the work, for work's 

sole sake : 
'Shall some day knock it down again : 

so He. 



118 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 



'Saitli He is terrible : watch His feats 

in proof ! 
One liurricane will spoil six good 

months' hope. 
He hath a spite against me, that I 

know, 
Just as He favors Prosper, who knows 

why ? 
So it is, all the same, as well I find. 
'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced 

them firm 
With stone and stake to stop she- 
tortoises 
Crawlinq: to lay their eggs here : well, 

one wave, 
Feeling the foot of Him upon its 

neck, 
G.iped as a snake does, lolled out its 

large tongue, 
And licked the whole labor flat : so 

much for spite. 
'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder 

it lies) 
Where, half an hour before, I slept 

1' the shade : 
Often they scatter sparkles : there is 

force ! 
'Dug up a newt He may have envied 

once 
And turned to stone, shut up inside a 

stoue 
Please Him and hinder this ? — What 

Prosper does ? 
Aha, if he would tell me how ! Not 

He ! 
There is the sport : discover how or 

die ! 
All need not die, for of the things o' 

the isle 
Some flee afar, some dive, some run 

up trees ; 
Those at His mercy, — why, they 

please Him most 
When . . . when . . . well, never try 

tlie same way twice ! 
Repeat what act has pleased. He may 

grow wroth. 
You must not know His ways, and 

play Him off, 
Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like him- 
self : 
'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing 

fears 
But steals the nut from underneath 

mj' thumb. 
And when I threat, bites stoutly in 

defence : 
'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise. 
Curls up into a ball, pretending death 



For fright at my approach : the two 

ways please. 
But what would move my choler more 

than this. 
That either creature counted on its 

life 
To-morrow and next day and all days 

to come. 
Saying forsooth in the inmost of its 

heart, 
" Because he did so yesterday with me. 
And otherwise with such another 

brute. 
So must he do henceforth and al- 

waj-s." — Ay? 
'Would leach the rea,soning couple 

what '• must " means : 
'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord ? 

So He. 

'Conceiveth all things will contiiuie 

thus, 
And we shall have to live in ft;ar of 

Him 
So long as He lives, kee^is His 

strength : no change. 
If He have done His best, make no 

new world 
To please Him more, so leave off 

watching this, — 
n He surprise not even the Quiet's 

self 
Some strange day, — or, suppose, 

grow into it 
As grubs grow butterflies : else, here 

are we. 
And there is He, and nowhere help at 

all. 

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall 

stop. 
His dam held different, that after 

death 
He both plagued enemies and feasted 

friends : 
Idly ! He doth His worst in this our 

life. 
Giving just respite lest we die through 

l^ain. 
Saving last pain for worst, — with 

which, an end. 
Meanwhile, the best way to escape 

His ire 
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees. 

himself. 
Yonder two flies, with purple films 

and jiink. 
Bask on the pompiou-bell above : kills 

both. 



SA UL. 



119 



'Sees two LJack painful beetles roll 

their ball 
On head and tail as if to save their 

iives : 
Moves them the stick away thej- 

strive to clear. 

Even so, 'would have Him miscon- 
ceive, suppose 
This Caliban strives hard and ails no 

less. 
And alwavs, above all else, envies 

Him^ 
Wherefore he mainly dances on dark 

nights. 
Moans in the sun, gets under holes to 

laugh. 
And never speaks his mind save 

housed as now : 
Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught 

me here, 
O'erheard this speech, and asked, 

*' What chucklest at ? " 
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger 

off. 
Or of my three kid yearlings burn 

the best, 
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree. 
Or push my tame beast for the ore to 

taste : 
While mj^self lit a fire, and made a 

song 
And sung it, " What I hate, be conse- 
crate 
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate 
For Thee ; what see for envy in poor 

me?" 



Hoping the while, since evils some- 
times mend. 

Warts rub away and sores are cured 
with slime. 

That some strange day, will either 
the Quiet catch 

And conquer Setebos, or likelier 
He 

Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as 
die. 



[What, what? A curtain o'er the 

world at once ! 
Crickets stop hissing; not a bird — 

or, yes. 
There scuds His raven that hath told 

Him all ! 
It was fool's play, this prattling ! 

Ha ! The wind 
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's 

house o' the move. 
And fast invading fires begin ! White 

blaze — 
A tree's head snaps — and there, 

there, there, there, there. 
His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe 

at Him ! 
Lo ! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos ! 
'Maketh his teeth meet through his 

upper lip. 
Will let those quails fly, will not eat 

this month 
One little mess of whelks, so he may 

'scape !j 



SAUL. 



Ere I tell, ere thou speak. 
Then I wished it, and did kiss his 



Satd Abner, " At last thou art come ! 
Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " 

cheek. 

And he, " Since the King, O my friend ! for thy countenance sent, 
Neitlier drunken nor eaten have we ; nor until from his tent 
Thou return with the joyful assurance the King iiveth yet, 
Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. 
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days. 
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, 
To betoken that Saul arid the Spirit have ended their strife. 
And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. 



120 SAUL. 



II. 
" Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved ! God's child with his dew 
On thy g:racious jjold hair, and those lilies still living and blue 
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat 
AVere now raging to torture the desert ! " 

III. 

Then I, as was meet, 
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, 
And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unloojied ; 
1 pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped : 
Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, 
That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on 
Till I felt where the foldskirts rty open. Then once more I prayed, 
And oj^ened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid 
But spoke, " Here is David, thy servant ! " And no voice reiilied. 
At the first I saw naught but tlie blackness ; but soon I descried 
A something more black than the blackness — the vast, the upright 
Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight 
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. 
Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul. 

IV. 

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide 

On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side ; 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs 

And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, 

Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come 

"With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. 

V. 

Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its chords 

Lest they snap 'iieath the stress of the noontide — those sunbeams like 

swords ! 
And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, 
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. 
They are white, and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed 
AVhere the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ; 
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 
Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far ! 

VI. 

— Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate 

To fly after the player ; then, what makes the crickets elate 

Till for holdness tliey fight one another : and then, what has weight 

To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house — 

There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse ! 

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, 

To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. 

VII, 

Then I plaved the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-son^,', when hand 
Grasps at liand, eye liirhts eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand 
And grow one in the sense of this world's life — And then, the last .song 
When the dead man is praised on liis journey — " Bear, bear him along 
With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! Are balm S(;eds not here 
To console us '? The land has none left such as he ou the bier. 



SAUL. 121 



Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! " — And then, tlie glad chant 
Of the marriage, — first go the yonng maidens, next, she whom we vaunt 
As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And then, the great march 
Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch 
Naught can break ; who shall harm them, our friends ? — Then, the chorus 

intoned 
As the Levites go up to the altar in glory erthroned. 
But I stopped here : for here in the darkness Saul groaned. 

YIII. 

And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart ; 
And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered : and sparkles 'gau dart 
From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start 
All its lordly male-sanphires, and rubies courageous at heart. 
So the head : but the "body still moved not, still hung there erect. 
And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, 
As I sang, — 

IX. 

" Oh, our manhood's prime vigor ! No spirit feels waste, 
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. 
Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock, 
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock 
Of tiie plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear. 
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. 
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, 
And the locust-fiesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, 
And tlie sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell 
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. 
How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ 
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! 

Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard 
When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward ? 
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy njother, held up as men sung 
The low song of the nearly departed, and hear her faint tongue 
Joining in while it coiild to the witness, ' Let one more attest, 
I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best ! ' 
Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the 

rest. 
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew 
Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true : 
And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood of wonder and hope, 
Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, — 
Till lo, tiiou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine ; 
And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! 
On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe 
That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go) 
High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, — all 
Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — King Saul ' " 

X. 

And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, hand, harp, and voice. 
Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice 
Saul's fanne in the light it was made for — as when, dare I say, 
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, 
And upsoareth the cherubiin-chariot — " Saul ! " cried I, and stopped, 
And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung j)ropped 
By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck l)y his name. 
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim. 



122 SAUL. 

And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that liehl (he alone, 

While the vale laui^hed in free<lom and tlowers) on a broad bust of stone 

A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, — leaves grasp of the sheet? 

Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, 

And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, 

V\"ith his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold — 

Yea. each harm got in tiglitingyour l)attles, each furrow and scar 

Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there they are ! 

— Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest 

Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest 

For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilled 

All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilhd 

At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. 

What was gone, what remained ? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair. 

Death was past, life not come : so he waited. A while his right haml 

Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, forthwith to remand 

To their place what new objects should enter : 'twas Saul avS before. - 

I looked up and (lared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more 

Than by slow palliil sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, 

At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's slow decline 

Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and intwine 

Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so, arm folded arm 

O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 

XI. 

What spell or what charm 
(For, a while there was trouble within me), what next should I urge 
To sustain him where song had restored him? — Song filled to the verge 
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields 
Of n)ere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : beyond, on what fields, 
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye 
And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put b\-? 
He saitli, " It is good ; " still he drinks not : he lets me praise life, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own jiart. 

XII. 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep 
Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep ; 
And I lay in my hollow and nnise<l on the world that might lie 
'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky. 
And I laughed — " Since my days are ortlained to be passed with my flocks, 
Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, 
Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show 
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! 
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains. 
And the; prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old 

trains 
Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so, once more the string 
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 

XIII. 

"Yea, my King," 
I began — " thou dost well in roiecting mere comforts that spring 
From the mere mortal life held in common by man and l>y brute : 
In our th'sh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. 
Thou hast niarked tlui slow rise of the tree, — how its stem trembled first 
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's autler ; then safely outburst 



SAUL. 123 

The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindest when these too, in turn 
Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect : yet more was to learn, 
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, 
"When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow ? or care for the plight 
Of the palm's self whose slow growth ijroduced them ? Kot so ! stem and 

branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. 
Leave the tiesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! 
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy 
More indeed, than at tirst when, inconscious, the life of a boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! Each deed thou hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world : until e'en as the sun 
Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, 
Can find nothiiig his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace 
The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each ray of thy will, 
Every flash of thy pjissiou and prowess, long over, shall thrill 
Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth 
A like cheer to their sons : who in turn, till the South and the North 
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past ! 
But the license of age has its limit : thou tliest at last. 
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height. 
So with man — so his power and his l)eaury forever take flight. 
No ! Again a long draught of my soul-wine ! Look forth o'er the years ! 
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the seer's ! 
Is Saul dead ? In the depth of the vale make his tomb — bid arise 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies. 
Let it mark where the great First Kling slumbers : whose fame would ye 

know? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go 
In great characters cut by the scribe, —Such was Saul, so he did; 
"With the sages directing the work, by the iwpulace chid, — 
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there ! Which fault to amend. 
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend 
(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record 
\Vith the gold of the graver, Saul's stor\', —the statesman's great word 
Side by side with tlie poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave 
With smooth paper-reeds grazing? each other when prophet-winds rave : 
So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part 
In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art ! " 

And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who didst grant me, that day. 

And,. before it, not seldom ha.st granted thy help to essay. 

Carry on and complete an adventure, — my shield and my sword 

In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word wa.s my word, — 

Still be %vith me, who then at the summit of human endeavor 

And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever 

On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, mighty to save. 

Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — God's throne from man's 

grave ! 
Let me tell out ray tale to its ending — my voice to my heart 
Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part. 
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone wit'n my sheep ! 
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep^ 
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves 
The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 



124 SAUL. 



XV. 

I say then, — my song 
While T sansj thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong. 
Made a proffer of good to console him— he slowly resnmed 
His old ujotions and habitudes kingly. Tlie right hand replumed 
His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his countenance bathes. 
He wipes off with the robe: and he girds now his loins as of yore, 
And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. 
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent 
Tlie broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, though much spent 
Be the life anil the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose. 
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never iiuite lose. 
So sank he along bs^ the tent-prop, still, stayed by the jnle 
Of his armor and war-<;loak and garments, he leaned there a while, 
And sat out my singing — one arm round the tent-prop, to raise 
His bent he;ul, and the other hung slack — till I touched on the praise 
I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there ; 
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware 
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees 
AVhich were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know 
If the best I could <lo had brought solace : he spoke not, Init slow- 
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with <*are 
Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : tlirough my hair 
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power — 
All myface back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. 
Thus held he me there wnth his great eyes that scrutinized mine — 
And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign ? 
I yearned — " Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, 
I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this ; 
I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence 
As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense ! " 

XVI. 

Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song more ! outbroke-- 

xvn. 

*' I have gone the whole round of creation : I saw and I spoke ; 

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain 

And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — returned him again 

His creation's ai)proval or censure : I spoke as I saw. 

I report, as a man may of God's work — all's love, yet all's law. 

Now I lay down tlie judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked 

To perceive him, has gaijied an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. 

Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at AVisdom laid bare. 

Have I forethought? liow purblind, bow blank, to the Infinite Care I 

Do I task any faculty highest to image success? 

I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less, 

In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God 

In the star, in tlu^ st(me, in tlu; flesh, in the soul and the clod. 

And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew 

(With that stoop' of the soul which in bending ii]»raises it too) 

Tlie submission of man's nothing-perfect to Gwl's all-complete, 

As by each new obeisance in sjjirit, I climb to his feet. 

Yet with all this abounding (experience, this <leity known, 

I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. 



SAUL. 125 



There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, 

I am fain to keep still in abej^ance (I laugh as I think), 

Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst 

E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could love if I durst ! 

But I sink the i)retension as fearing a man may o'ertake 

God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake. 

— What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, 

Nine and ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? 

In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all ? 

Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift. 

That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here the parts shift ? 

Here, the creature surpass the creator, — the end, what began? 

Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man. 

And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can ? 

Would it ever have entered ray mind, the l)are will, much less power. 

To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower 

Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to make such a soul, 

Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole ? 

And doth it not enter mj mind (as my warm tears attest) 

These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? 

Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height 

This perfection, — succeed, with life's dayspring, death's minute of night? 

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, 

Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him awake 

From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set 

Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new harmony yet 

To be run and continued, and ended — who knows ? — or endiu'e ! 

The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure ; 

By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, 

And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. 

XVIII. 

" I believe it ! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive : 

In the first is the last, in thy will is njy power to believe. 

All's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer, 

As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. 

From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth : 

I will ? — the mere atoms despise me ! Why am I not loth 

To look that, even that in the face too ? W'hy is it I dare 

Think but lighth^ of such impuissance ? What stops my despair ? 

This ; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do I 

See the King — I would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through. 

Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich. 

To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing which, 

I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now ! 

Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 

So shall crown thee the topmast, ineffablest, uttermost crown — 

And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down 

One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, 

Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death ! 

As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved 

Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved ! 

He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand the most weak 

'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! my flesh, that I seek 

In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. " O Saul, it shall be 

A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to nie, 

Thou Shalt love and be loved by, forever : a Hand like this hand 

Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the Christ stand I " 



126 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 



I know not too well how I found nay way home in the night. 

There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, 

Angels, powers, tlie nnuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware : 

I repressed, I got tlirough them as hardly, as strugglingly there, 

As a runner heset by the popuhice famished for news — 

Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews ; 

And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot 

Out in tire the strong paint of [lent knowledge : but I fainted not, 

For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed 

All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy l)ehest. 

Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. 

Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth — 

I«Jot so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth ; 

In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills ; 

In the shudilering forests' held breath ; in the sudden wind-thrills ; 

In the startled wild beasts that bore oft, each with eye sidling still 

Though averted with wonder and dread ; in the birds stiff and chill 

That rose heavily as I approached them, made stupid with awe : 

E'en the serpent that slid away silent — he felt the new law. 

The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers ; 

The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers : 

And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, 

AVith their obstinate, all but hushed voices — " E'eu so, it is so ! " 



RABBI BEX EZRA. 

I, 

Grow old along with me ! 

The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first 

was made : 
Our times are in His hand 
AVho saith, "A whole I planned. 
Youth shows but half ; trust God : 

see all, nor be afraid ! " 



II. 

Not that, amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed, " AYliich rose make 

ours. 
Which lily leave and then as best 

recall ! " 
Not that, admiring stars, 
It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
Mine be some figured flame which 

blends, transcends them all ! " 



III. 

Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate : folly wide the 
mark ! 



Rather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without. 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled 
by a spark. 

IV. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 

On joy, to solely seek and find and 

feast. 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets 

doubt the maw-crammed beast ? 



not 



Rejoice we are allied 

To That whitdi doth provide 

And not partake, effect and 

receive ! 
A spark disturbs our clod : 
Nearer we hold of God 
Who gives, than of His tribes that 

take, I must believe. 

vr. 
Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand 
but go ! 



RABBI BEX EZRA. 



127 



Be our joys tlirt-e-parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap The strain : 
Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, 
never grudge the throe ! 



For thence, — a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to 

fail: 
What I aspired to be, 
And was not, comforts me : 
A brute I might have been, but would 

not sink i' the scale. 



VIII. 

What is he but a brute 
Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 

want play ? 
To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best. 
How far can that project thy soul on 

its lone way ? 



Yet gifts should prove their use : 

I own the Past profuse 

Of j)ower each side, perfection every 

turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole : 
Should not the heart beat once " How 
. good to live aud learn " ? 



Not once beat " Praise be thine ! 

I see the whole design, 

I, who saw i>ower, see now love per- 
fect too. 

Perfect I call Thy plan : 

Thanks that I was a man ! 

Maker, remake, complete, — I trust 
what Thou shalt do ! " 



For pleasant is this flesh ; 
Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns 

for rest : 
Would we some prize might hold 
To match those manifold 
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, 

as we did best ! " 



xri. 
L/Ct us not always say 
" Spite of this tlesh to-day 
I strove, made head, gained ground 

upon the whole ! " 
As the bird wings and sings. 
Let us cry "All good tilings 
Are ours, nor soul heljjs tlesh more, 

now, than flesh helps soul ! " 

xin. 
Therefore I summon age 
To grant youtlis heritage. 
Life's struggle haNiug so far reached 

its term : 
Thence shall I pass, approved 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute : a God 

though in the germ. 



And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave 

and new : 
Fearless and unperplexed. 
When I wage battle next. 
What weapons to select, what armor 

to indue. 

XV. 

Youth ended, I shall try 
My gain or loss thereby : 
Leave the fire ashes, what survives 

is gold : 
And I shall weigh the same, 
Give life its praise or blame : 
Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall 

know, being old. 



x^^, 
For, note when evening shuts, 
A certain moment cuts 
The deed off, calls the glory from the 

gray: 
A whisjier from the west 
Shoots — " Add this to the re.st. 
Take it and try its worth : here dies 

another da v." 



xvir. 
So, still within this life. 
Though lifted o'er its strife, 
' Let me discern, compare, pronounce 

i at last, 



128 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 



" This rage was right i' the main, 
That acquiescence vain : 
The Future I may face now I have 
proved the Fast." 

XVIIT. 

For more is not reserved 
To man, with soul just nerved 
To act to-morrow what he learns to- 
day : 
Here, work enough to watch 
The jNIaster work, and catcli 
Hints of tlie proper craft, tricks of 
the tool's true play. 

XIX. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth. 

Toward making, than repose on aught 

found made : 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age • wait 

death, nor be afraid ! 



XX. 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy 

hand thine own, 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor 

let thee feel alone. 



xxr. 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small, 
Annojinced to each his station in the 

Past ! 
"Was I, the world arraigned, 
Were they, my soul disdained. 
Right ? Let age speak the truth and 

give us peace at last ! 



XX I r. 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
ceive ; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

]Mat(h me : we all surmise. 

They, this thing, and I, that : whom 
shall my soul believe ? 



xxiir. 
Not on the vulgar mass 
Called " work," must sentence pass. 
Things done, that took the eye and 

had the price ; 
O'er which, from level stand, 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could 

value in a trice : 

XXIV. 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 

So passed in making up the main ac- 
count : 

All instincts immature, 

All jmr poses unsure. 

That weighed not as his work, yet 
swelled the man's amount : 

XXV. 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies that broke through language 

and escaped : 
All I could never be. 
All, men ignored in me, 
This, I was worth to God, whose 

wheel the pitcher shaped. 

XXVT. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

Tliat metaphor ! and feel 

Why time spins fcist, why passive lies 

our clay, — 
Thou, to whom fools propound, 
AVhen the wine makes its round, 
" Since life deets, all is change ; the 

Past gone, seize to-day ! " 

XXVII. 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God 

stand sure : 
What entered into thee, 
Tliat was, is. and shall be : 
Time's wheel runs back or stops : 

Potter and clay endure. 

XXVIII. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 
Of ]>lastic circumstance, 
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst 
fain arrest : 



EPILOGUE. 



129 



Ma<'hinery just meant 
To give thy soul its bent, 
Try thee, and turn thee forth suffi- 
ciently impressed. 

XXIX. 

TVTiat thouorh tlie earlier grooves 
Which ran the laughing loves 
Around thy base, no longer pause and 

press* ? 
"Wliat though, al>out thy rim, 
Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the 

sterner stress ? 



Look not thou down but up ! 

To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp's flash, and 

trumpet's peal. 
The new wine's foaming flow, 
The Mtister's lii>s aglow ! 
Thou, heaven's ctmsummate cup, what 

needst thou with earth's wheel? 

xxxr. 
But I need, now as then. 
Thee, God, who mouldest men ! 
And since, not even while the whirl 

was worst. 
Did I, — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife, 
Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to 

slake Thy thirst : 

XXX n. 
So, take and use Thy work, 
Amend what flaws may lurk. 
What strain o' the sruif, what warp- 

ings pa-st the aim ! 
My times be in Thy hand ! 
Perfect tlie cup as planned ! 
Let age approve of youth, and death 

complete the same ! 



EPILOGUE. 
First Speakf.e, as David. 



On the first of the Feast of Feasts, 

The Dedication Day. 
When the Levites joined the priests 

At the altar in robed array. 
Gave signal to sound and sav, — 



When the thousands, rear and van, 
Swarming with one accord. 

Became as a single man 
(Look, gesture, thought, ami word), 

In praising and thanking the Lord, — 



When the singers lift up their voice. 
Ami the trumpets made endeavor. 

Sounding, ' In Go<l rejoice ! " 
Saying, '• In Him rejoice 

Whose mercy endureth forever ! " 



Then the Temple fille<l with a cloud. 
Even the House of the Lord ; 

Porch l)ent and pillar l>owed : 
For the presence of the Lord, 

In the glory of His cloud. 
Had tilled the House of the Lord. 

Secoxd Speakek, as E'-nan. 

Gone now ! All gone across the dark 
so far. 
Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, 
shutting still. 
Dwindling into the distance, dies 
that star 
Which came, stoo<l, opened once ! 
We gazed our fill 
With upturned faces on as real a Face 
That, stooping from grave music 
and mild fire. 
Took in our homage, made a visible 
place 
Through many a depth of glory, 
gyre on g.vre, 
For the dim human tribute. Was 
this true ? 
Could m.an indeed avail, mere praise 
of his. 
To help by rapture God's own rapr 
ture too. 
Thrill with a heart's red tinge that 
pure pale bliss ? 
Why did it end ? Who failed to beat 
the breast. 
And shriek, and throw the arms 
protesting wiile, 
When a first shadow showed the star 
adilressed 
Itself to motion, and on either side 
The rims contracted as the rays 
retired ; 
The music, like a fountain's sicken- 
ing pidJse, 



130 



EPILOGUE. 



Subsided on itself : a Avliile transpired 
Some vestige of a Face no pangs 
convulse, 
No prayers retard ; then even this 
was gone, 
Lost in the night at last. We, lone 
and left 
Silent through centuries, ever and 
anon 
Venture to probe again the vault 
bereft 
Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist 
Of multitudinous points, yet suns, 
men say — 
And this leaps ruby, this lurks ame- 
thyst, 
But where may hide what came 
and loved our clay ? 
How shall the sage detect in yon ex- 
panse 
The star which chose to stoop and 
stay for us ? 
Unroll the records ! Hailed ye such 
advance 
Indeed, and did your hope evanish 
thus ? 
Watchers of twilight, is the worst 
averred ? 
We shall not look up, know our- 
selves are seen, 
Speak, and be sure that we again are 
heard. 
Acting or suffering, have the disk's 
serene 
Reflect our life, absorb an earthly 
flame. 
Nor doubt that, were mankind inert 
and numb. 
Its core had never crimsoned all the 



Nor, missing ours, its music fallen 
dumb? 
Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post, 
Sad sway of sce])tre whose mere 
touch appals, 
Ghastly dethronement, cursed by 
those the most 
On whose repugnant brow the 
crown next falls ! 



ThII^D SPEA^;EB. 



Witless alike of will and way divine, 
How heaven's high with earth's low 

should intertwine 1 
yriends, I have seen through your 

eyes : now use mine I 



Take the least man of all mankind, 

as I ; 
Look at his head and heart, find how 

and why 
He differs from his fellows utterly : 



III. 
Then, like me, watch when nature by 

degrees 
Grows alive round him, as in Arctic 

seas 
(They said of old) the instinctive 

water flees 



Toward some elected point of central 

rock, 
As tliougli, for its sake o\\\y, roamed 

the flock 
Of waves about the waste : a while 

they mock 



With radiance caught for the occa- 
sion, — hues 

Of blackest hell now, now such reds 
and blues 

As only heaven could fitly interfuse, — 



The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, 

king 
O' the current for a minute: then they 

wring 
Up by the roots and oversweep the 

thing, 



And hasten off, to play again else- 
where 

The same part, choose another peak 
as bare. 

They find and flatter, feast and fin- 
ish there. 

viir. 

When you see what I tell you, — na- 
ture dance 

About each man of us, retire, ad- 
vance, 

As though tlie p^ge^nt's end were to 
enhance 



APPARITIONS. 



131 



His worrli, and — once tie life, his 

nroduot. siained — 
Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife 

sustained, 
And show thus real, a thing the North 

but feigned, — 



TThen you acknowledge that one 

world could do 
All the diverse work, old yet ever 

new, 
Dh-ide us, each from other, me from 

you, — 

XI. 

Why ! Where's the need of Temple, 

when the walls 
O' the world are that ? AYliat use of 

swells and falls 
From Levites' choir, priests' cries, 

and trumpet-calls ? 

XII. 

That one Face, far from vanish, rather 

grows, 
Or decomposes hut to recompose, 
Become my universe that feels and 

knows ! 



A AVALL. 



Oh the old wall here ! How I could 
pass 

Life in a long midsummer day, 
My feet confined to a plot of grass, 

j^ly eyes from a wall not once away ! 



And lush and lithe do the creepers 
clothe 
Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of 
green : 
Its bald red bricks draped, nothing 
loth, 
In lappets of tangle they laugh be- 
tween. 



Now, what is it makes pulsate the 
robe? 
Why tremble the sprays ? What 
life o'erbrims 



The body, — the house, no eye can 
probe, — 
Divined as, beneath a robe, the 
limbs ? 



And there again ! But my heart may 
guess 
Who tripped behind ; and she sang 
perhaps : 
So, the old wall throbbed, and its 
life's excess 
Died out and away in the leafy 
wraps. 

V. 

Wall upon wall are between us : life 
And song should away from heart 
to heart ! 
I — prison-bird, with a ruddy strife 
At breast, and a \\^ whence storm- 
notes start — 



VI. 

Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing 
That's spirit : though cloistered fast, 
soar free ; 
Account as wood, brick, stone, this 
ring 
Of the rueful neighbors, and — forth 
to thee ! 



APPARITIOXS. 



SrcH a starved bank of moss 
Till, that May-morn, 

Blue ran the Hash across : 
Violets were born ! 



Sky — what a scowl of cloud 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud : 

Splendid, a star ! 



World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 
Till God's own smile came out 

That was thv face ! 



132 



NATURAL MAGIC. 



NATURAL MAGIC. 



All I can say is — I saw it ! 

The room was as bare as your hand. 

I locked in the swarth little lady, — 

I swear, 
From the head to the foot of her — 

well, quite as bare ! 
"No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, 

" taking my stand 
At this bolt which I draw ! " And 

this bolt — I withdraw it. 
And there laughs the lady, not bare, 

but embowered 
"With— who knows what verdure, 

o'erfrnited, o'erllowered ? 
Impossible ! Only — I saw it ! 

ir. 

All I can sing is — I feel it ! 

This life was as blank as that room ; 

I let you pass in here. Precaution, 

indeed ? 
Walls, ceiling, and floor, — not a 

chance for a weed ! 
Wide opens the entrance : where's 

cold now, where's gloom ? 
No May to sow seed here, no June to 

reveal it. 
Behold you enshrined in these blooms 

of your bringing. 
These fruits of your bearing — nay, 

birds of your winging ! 
A fairy-tale ! Only — I feel it ! 



MAGICAL NATURE. 



Flower ~ I never fancied, jewel — 
I profess you ! 
Bright I see and soft I feel the out- 
side of a flower. 
Save but glow inside and — jewel, I 
should guess you, 
Dim to sight and rough to touch : 
the glory is the dower. 



You, forsooth, a flower ? Nay, ray 
love, a jewel — 
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in 
your prime ! 



Time may fray the flower-face : kind 
be time or cruel. 
Jewel, from each facet, flash your 
laugh at time ! 



GARDEN FANCIES. 

I. THE FLOWER'S NAME. 

r. 
Here's the garden she walked across, 
Arm in my arm, such a short while 
since : 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the 
moss 
Hinders the hinges and makes them 
wince ! 
She must have reached this shrub ere 
she turned, 
As back with that murmur the 
wicket swung ; 
For she laid the poor snail, my chance 
foot spurned, 
To feed and forget it the leaves 
among. 

ir. 
Down this side of the gravel-walk 
She went while her robe's edge 
brnshed the box : 
And here she paused in her gracious 
talk 
To point me a moth on the milk- 
white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 
I will never think that she passed 
you by ! 
She loves you noble roses, I know ; 
But yonder, see, where the rock- 
jilants lie ! 



This flower she stopped at, finger on 
lip, 
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling 
its claim ; 
Till she gave me, with pride to make 
no slip, 
Its soft meandering Spanish name. 
What a natne ! Was it love, or praise ? 
Speech half-asleep, or song half- 
awake ? 
I must learn Spanish, one of these 
days. 
Only for that slow sweet name's 
"sake. 



GARDEN FANCIES. 



133 



Roses, —if I live and do well, 

I insij bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as line a spell, 

Fit you each with his Spanish 
phrase. 
But do not detain me now ; for she 
linsrers 

There, like sunshine over the <p-oiind, 
And ever I see her soft white lingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 



Flower, you Spaniard, look that you 
grow not, 
Stay as you are and be loved for- 
ever ! 
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow 
not, 
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens 
never ! 
For while it pouts, her fingers wres- 
tle. 
Twinkling the audacious leaves be- 
tween, 
Till round they turn and down thej' 
nestle ; 
Is not the dear mark still to be 
seen? 

VI. 

"Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 
Whither I follow her, beauties liee : 
Is there no method to tell her in 
Spanish 
June's twice June since she breathed 
it with me ? 
Come, bud, show me the least of her 
traces. 
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall ! 
— Ah, you may tiout and turn ui> your 
faces — 
Roses, you are not so fair after all ! 



II. 
SIBRAXDUS SCHAFXABURGEXSIS. 



PLAGrF, take all your pedants, say I ! 
He who wrote" what I hold in my 
hand. 
Centuries back was so good as to die, 
Leaving this rubbish to cumber the 
land ; 
This, that was a book in its time, 
Printed on paper and bound in 
leather, 



Last month in the white of a matin- 
prime 
Just when the birds sang all to- 
gether. 



Into the garden I brought it to read. 

And under the arbute and laurus- 
tine 
Read it, so help me grace in my need, 

From title-page to closing line. 
Chapter on cha[)ter did I count, 

As a curious traveller counts Stone- 
henge ; 
Added up the mortal amount. 

And then proceeded to my revenge. 

III. 
Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice 
An owl would build in, were he but 
sage ; 
For a lap of moss, like a fine pont 
levis 
In a castle of the middle age. 
Joins to a lip of gum. pure amber ; 
When he'd be private, there might 
he spend 
Hours alone in his lady's chamber : 
Into this crevice I dropped our 
friend. 

IV. 

Splash, went he, as under he ducked, 
— At the bottom, I knew, rain-drii> 
pings stagnate ; 
Next, a handful of blossoms I j^lucked 
To bury him with, my bookshelf's 
n) agnate ; 
Then I went indoors, brought out a 
loaf, 
Half a cheese, and a bottle of Cha- 
blis ; 
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf 
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. 



Now, this morning, betwixt the moss 
And gum that locked our friend in 
limbo, 
A spider had spun his web across. 
And sat in the midst with arms 
akimbo : 
So, I took pity^ for learning's sake, 

And, de profuvdls, accentibiis la:tis, 
Cuntate ! quoth T, as I got a rake ; 
And up I fished his delectable trea- 
tise. 



134 



IN THREE DAYS. 



Here you have it, dry in the snn, 

"Wit'li all the binding all of a blister, 
And great blue spots where the ink 
has run, 
And reddish streaks that wink and 
glister 
O'er the page so beautifully yellow : 
Oh, well liave the droppings jilayed 
their tricks ! 
Did he guess how toadstools grow, 
this fellow ? 
Here's one stuck in his chapter six ! 



How did he like it when the live 
creatures 
Tickled and toused and browsed 
hiui all over. 
And wonn, slug, eft, with serious 
features, 
Came in, each one, for his right of 
trover ? 
— When the water-beetle with great 
blind deaf face 
Made of her eggs the stately de- 
posit, 
And tlie newt borrowed just so much 
of the preface 
As tiled in the top of his black 
wife's closet ? 

vrir. 
All that life and fun and romping, 
All that frisking and twisting and 
coupling, 
"While slowly our poor friend's leaves 
were swamping, , 

And clasps were cracking, and cov- 
ers suppling ! 
As if you had carried sour John 
Knox 
To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, 
or Munich, 
Fastened him into a front-row box, 
And danced off the ballet with 
trousers and tunic. 



Come, old martyr ! What, torment 
enough is it ? 
Back to my room shall you take 
your sweet self 
Good-by, mother-beetle ; hushaud- 
eft, svtfi'-it ! 
See the simg niche I have made on 
my shelf ! 



A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall 
cover you. 
Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to 
l)e gay, 
And with E. on each side, and F. right 
over you, 
Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment- 
day ! 



IN THREE DAYS. 



I. 
So, I shall see her in three days 
And just one night, but nights are 

short, 
Then two long hours, and that is 

morn. 
See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! 
Feel, where my life broke off from 

thine. 
How fresh the splinters keej) and 

fine, — 
Only a touch, and we combine ! 

ir. 
Too long, this time of year, the days ! 
But nights, at least the nights are 

siiort. 
As night shows where her one moon 

is, 
A hand's-breadth of pure light and 

bliss. 
So life's night gives my lady birth 
And my eyes hold her ! What is 

wortli^ 
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? 

III. 
O loaded curls ! release your store 
Of warmth and scent, as once before 
The tingling hair did. lights and darks 
Outbreaking into fairy sparks, 
When under curl and curl 1 juried 
After the warmth and scent inside, 
Through lights and darks how mani- 
fold — 
The dark inspired, the light con- 
trolled, 
As early Art embrowns the gold ! 



What great fear, should one say, 

" Three days, 
That change the world, might change 

as well 



RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRlPOLf. 



13; 



Your fortune ; an<l if joy delays, 
Be happy tliat no worse Ijefell ! " 
What small fear, if another says, 
" Three days and one shortnight be- 
side 
May throw no shadow on your ways : 
But years must teem with change 

untried, 
With chance not easily defied. 
With an end somewhere undescried." 
No fear ! — or, if a fear be born 
This minute, fear die^? out in soom. 
Fear ■? I siiall see her in three days 
And one night, now the nights are 

short. 
Then just two hours, and that is 



THE LOST MISTRESS. 



Ail's over, then : does truth sound 
bitter 
As one at first believes ? 
Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night 
twitter 
About your cottage eaves ! 



And the leaf-buds on the vine are 
woolly, 

I noticed that to-<lay : 
One day more bursts them open fully : 

You know the red turns gray. 

in. 

To-morrow we meet the same then, 
dearest ? 
May I take your hand in mine ? 
Mere friends are we, — well, friends 
the merest 
Keep much that I resign. 



Each glance of the eve so bright and 
black. 
Though I keep with heart's en- 
deavor, — 
Your voice, when you wish the snow- 
drops back, 
Though it stay in my soul forever, — 



Yet I will but say what mere friends 
say. 
Or only a thought stronger : 
I will hold your hand but as long as 
all may. 
Or so very little longer ! 



OXE WAY OF LOVE. 



All, June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
Xow, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
And strew them where Pauline may 

pass. 
She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
The chance was they might take her 

eye. 



How many a month I strove to suit 
These stulilx>rn fingers to the lute ! 
To-day I venture all I know. 
She will not hear my music ? So ! 
Break the string ; fold nmsic's wing : 
Suppc^e Pauline had bade me sing ! 

ni. 
My whole life long I learned to love. 
This hour my utmost art I prove 
And si>eak mv passion — heaven or 

hell ? 
She will not give me heaven ? "Tis 

well ! 
Lose who may — I still can say. 
Those who 'win heaven, blest are 

they! 



RUDEL TO THE LADY OF 
TFJPOLL 



I Kxow a Mount, the gracious Sun 

I>erceives 
First, when he visits, last, too, when 

he leaves 
The world : and, vainly favoretl, it 

repays 
The day-long glory of his steadfast 

gsize 



136 



NUMPHOLEPTOS. 



By no change of its large calm front 

of snow. 
And, underneath the Mount, a Flower 

I know, 
He cannot have perceived, that 

changes ever 
At his approach ; and, in the lost 

endeavor 
To live his life, has parted, one \)y 

one, 
With all a flower's true graces, for the 

grace 
Of heing but a foolish mimic sun, 
AV'ith ra^Mike florets round a disk- 
like face. 
Men nobly call by many a name the 

Mount 
As over many a land of theirs its 

large 
Calm front of snow like a triumphal 

targe 
Is reared, and still with old names, 

fresh names vie. 
Each to its proper praise and own ac- 
count : 
Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, 

sportivel3\ 

II. 
O Angel of the East ! one, one gold 

look 
Across the waters to this twilight 

nook, 
— The far sad waters, Angel, to this 

nook ! 



Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East 
indV'(Hl ? 

Go! — si'.ying ever as thou dost pro- 
ceed, 

That I, French Rudel, choose for my 
(levice 

A sunflower outsi^read like a sacri- 
fice 

Before its idol. See ! These inex- 
pert 

And hurried fingers could not fail to 
hurt 

The woven picture ; 'tis a woman's 
skill 

Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, 
ill 

Or well, the work is finished. Say, 
men feed 

On songs I sing, and therefore bask 
the bees 

On my flower's breast as on a plat- 
form broad : 



But, as the flower's concern is not 
for these 

But solely for the sun, so men ap- 
plaud 

In vain this Rudel, he not looking 
here 

But to the East — the East ! Go, say 
this. Pilgrim dear ! 



NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

Still you stand, still you listen, still 

you smile ! 
Still melts your moonbeam through 

me, white a while, 
Softening, sweetening, till sweet and 

soft 
Increase so round this heart of mine, 

that oft 
I could believe your moonbeara-sraile 

has past 
The pallid limit and, transformed at 

last, 
Lies, sunlight and salvation — warms 

the soul 
It sweetens, softens ! "Would you 

pass that goal. 
Gain love's birth at the limit's hap- 

\)\PT verge. 
And, where an iridescence lurks, but 

urge 
The hesitating pallor on to prime 
Of dawn ! — true blood-streaked, sun- 
warmth, action-time. 
By heart-i>ulse ripened to a ruddy glow 
Of gold above my clay — I scarce 

should know 
From gold's self, thus suffused ! For 

gold means love. 
"What means the sad slow silver smile 

above 
My clav but pity, pardon ? — at the 

best. 
But acquiescence that I take my rest, 
Contented to be clay, while in your 

heaven 
The sun reserves love for the Spirit- 
Seven 
Companioning God's throne they lamp 

before, 
— Leaves earth a mute waste only 

wandered o'er 
By that pale soft sweet disempas- 

sioned moon 
"Which smiles me slow forgiveness I 

Such, the boon 



NUMPHOLEPTOS. 



137 



I beg? Nay, dear, submit to tbis — 
just tbis 

Supreme endeavor ! As my lips now 
kiss 

Your feet, my arms convulse your 
sbrouding robe. 

My eyes, acjuainted witb tbe dust, 
dare probe 

Your eyes above for — wbat, if born, 
would blind 

Mine witb redundant bliss, as flash 
may find 

The inert nerve, sting awake the pal- 
sied limb. 

Bid with life's ecstasy sense over- 
brim 

And suck back death in the resvirging 

joy — 

So grant me — love, whole, sole, with- 
out alloy ! 

Vainly ! The promise withers ! I 

employ 
Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer 

which finds the word. 
Make tlie appeal which must be felt, 

not heard, 
And none the more is changed your 

calm regard : 
llather, its sweet and soft grow harsh 

and hard — 
Forbearance, then repulsion, then dis- 
dain. 
Avert the rest ! I rise, see ! — make, 

again 
Once more, the old departure for 

some track 
Untried yet through a world which 

brings ine back 
Ever thus fruitlessly to find your 

feet, 
To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and 

sweet 
"Which smile there — take from his 

new pilgrimage 
Your outcast, once your inmate, and 

assuage 
With love — not placid pardon now — 

his thirst 
For a mere drop from out the ocean 

erst 
He drank at ! Well, the quest shall 

be renewed. 
Fear nothing ! Though I linger, un- 

imbueil 
With any drop, my lips thus close. I 

go ! 
So did I leave you, I have found you 



And doubtlessly, if fated to return, 
So shall my pleading persevere and 

earn 
Pardon — not love — in that same 

smile, I learn. 
And lose the meaning of, to learn 

once more. 
Vainly ! 

What fairy track do I ex- 
plore ? 

What magic hall return to, like the 
gem 

Centu ply-angled o'er a diadem ? 

You dwell tiiere, hearted ; from your 
midmost home 

Rays forth — through that fantastic 
world I roam 

Ever — from centre to circumference, 

Shaft upon colored shaft : this crim- 
sons thence. 

That purples out its precinct through 
the waste. 

Surely I had your sanction when I 
faced. 

Fared forth upon that untried yellow 
ray 

Whence T retrack my steps ? They 
end to-day 

Where they began, before your feet, 
beneath 

Your eyes, yoiu- smile: the blade is 
shut in sheath, 

Fire quenched in liint ; irradiation, 
late 

Triumphant through the distance, 
finds its fate. 

Merged in your blank pure soul, alike 
the source 

And tomb of that prismatic glow : 
divorce 

Absolute, all-conclusive ! Forth I 
fared, 

Treading the lambent flamelet : little 
cared 

If now its flickering took the topaz 
tint, 

If now my dull-caked path gave sul- 
phury hint 

Of subterranean rage — no stay nor 
stint 

To yellow, since you sanctioned that 
I bathe. 

Burnish me, soul and body, swim and 
swathe 

In yellow license. Here I reek suf- 
fused 

With crocus, saffron, orange, as I 
used 



138 



NUMPHOLEPTOS. 



With scarlet, purple, every dj^e o' the 
bow 

Born of the storm-cloud. As before, 
you show 

Scarce recognition, no approval, some 

Mistrust, more wonder at a man be- 
come 

Monstrous in garb, nay — flesh dis- 
guised as well, 

Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er 
i)efell, 

I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that 
vein 

You authorized should leave your 
whiteness, stain 

Earth's sombre stretch beyond your 
midmost place 

Of vantage, — trode that tinct where- 
of the trace 

On garb and flesh repel you ! Yes, I 
plead 

Your own permission — your com- 
mand, indeed. 

That who would worthily retain the 
love 

Must share the knowledge shrined 
those eyes above, 

Go boldly on adventure, break 
through bounds 

O* the (luintessential whiteness that 
surrounds 

Your feet, obtain exjjerience of each 
tinge 

That bickers forth to broaden out, 
impinge 

Plainer his foot its pathway all dis- 
tinct 

From every other. Ah, the wonder, 
linked 

With fear, as exploration manifests 

What agency it was first tipped the 
crests 

Of unnamed wild-flower, soon pro- 
truding grew 

Portentous mid the sands, as when 
his hue 

Betrays liim and the burrowing snake 
gleams through ; 

Till, last . . . but why parade more 
shame and pain? 

Are not the proofs upon me? Here 
again 

I pass into your presence, T receive 

Your suliU; of pity, pardon, and I 
leave . . , 

No, not this last of times I leave you, 
mute, 

Submitted to my penance, so my 
foot 



May yet again adventure, tread, from 
source 

To issue, one more ray of rays which 
course 

Each other, at your bidding, from the 
sphere 

Silver and sweet, their birthplace, 
down that drear 

Dark of the world, — j^ou promise 
shall return 

Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops 
o' the urn 

The rainbow paints from, and no 
smatch at all 

Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud- 
pall 

Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits 
tlie fall 

O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who 
trusts your word 

Tries the adventure: and returns — 
absurd 

As friglitful — in that sulphur-steeped 
disguise 

Mocking the priestly clotli-of-gold, 
sole prize 

The arch-heretic was wont to bear 
away 

Until he reached the burning. No, I 
say : 

No fresh adventure ! No more seek- 
ing love 

At end of toil, and finding, calm 
above 

My passion, the old statuesque re- 
gard. 

The sad petrific smile ! 



O you — less hard 

And hateful than mistaken and ob- 
tuse 

Unreason of a she-intelligence ! 

You very woman with tlie pert pre- 
tence 

To match the male achievement ! 
Like enough ! 

^y. y<'ii were easy victors, did the 
rough 

Straightway efface itself to smooth, 
the gruff 

Grind down and grow a whisper, — 
did man's truth 

Subdu^,, for sake of chivalrj'- and 
ruth. 

Its rapier edge to suit the bulrush- 
spear 

Womanly falsehood fights with I O 
that car 



THE WORST OF IT. 



139 



All fact pricks rudely, tliat thrice- 

supertiue 
Femiuiry of sense, with right divine 
To waive all jirocess, take result 

stain-free 
From out the very muck wherein . . . 
Ah me ! 
The true slave's querulous outbreak ! 

All the rest 
Be resignation ! Forth at your behest 
I fare. Who knows but this — the 

crimson-quest — 
May deepen to a sunrise, not decay 
To that cokl sad sweet smile ? — which 

I obey. 



APPEARAXCES. 



And so vou found that poor room 

dull, 
Dark, hardlv to vour taste, mv 

Dear ? 
Its features seemed unbeautiful : 
But this I kuow — '.twas there, not 

here. 
You plighted troth to me, the word 
"Which — ask tliat poor room how it 

heard ! 



And this rich room obtains your praise 
Unqualified, — so bright, so fair. 

So all whereat perfection stays ? 
Ay, but remember — here, not there, 

The other word was spoken ! Ask 

This rich room how you dropped the 
mask ! 



THE WORST OF IT. 



Would it were I had been false, not 
you ! 
I that am nothing, not vou that are 
all : 
I, never the worse for a touch or two 
On my speckled hide ; not you, the 
pride 
Of the dav, mv swan, that a first 
fieck's fall" 
On her wonder of white must un- 
swan, undo ! 



II. 

I had dipped in life's struggle and, 
out again, 
Bore specks of it here, there, easy 
to see, 
When I found my swan and the cure 
was plain ; 
The dull turned bright as I caught 
your white 
On my bosom : you saved me — saved 
in vain 
If you ruined yourself, and all 
through me ! ' 



III. 

Yes, all through the speckled beast 
I am, 
Who taught you to stoop ; you gave 
me yourself. 
And bound your soul by the vows 
which damn : 
Since on better thought you break, 
as you ought. 
Vows — words, no angel set down, 
some elf 
Mistook, — for an oath, an epigram ! 



Yes, might I judge you, here were my 
heart, 
And a hundred its like, to treat as 
you pleased ! 
I choose to be yours, for my proper 
part, 
Yours, leave me or take, or mar or 
make ; 
If I acquiesce, why should you be 
teased 
With the conscience-prick and the 
memory-smart ? 



V. 

But what will God say? O my 

Sweet, 

Think, and be sorry you did this 
thing ! 
Though earth were unworthy to feel 
your feet, 

There's a heaven above may de- 
serve your love : 
Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt 
gold ring 

And a promise broke, were it just 
or meet ? 



140 



TfJE WORST OF IT. 



And I to have tempted you ! I, wlio 
tried 
Your soul, no doubt, till it sank ! 
Unwise, 
I loved and was lowdy, loved and 
aspired, 
Loved, grieving or glad, till I made 
you mad, 
And you meant to have liated and 
des))ise(l — 
"WLereas, you deceiveel me nor in- 
quired ! 

vn. 
Sbe, ruined ? How ? No heaven for 
her ? 
Crowus to give, and noue for the 
brow 
That looked like marble and smelt 
like myrrh ? 
Shall The robe be worn, and the 
palm-branch borne. 
And slie go graceless, she graced now 
Beyond all saints, as themselves 
aver ? 

vin. 
Hardly ! That must be understood ! 
The earth is your place of penance, 
then ; 
And what will it prove ? I desire 
your good, 
But, plot as I vaay, I can find no 
way 
How a blow should fall, such as falls 
on men. 
Nor prove too much for yonx woman- 
hood. 

IX. 

It will come, I suspect, at the end of 
life, 
When you walk alone, and review 
the ]iast ; 
And I, who so long shall have done 
with strife, 
And journeyed my stage and earned 
my wage 
And retired as was right, — I am 
called at last 
AYhen tlie Devil stabs you, to lend 
the knife. 



X. 

He stabs for the minute of trivial 
wrong, 
Nor tlie other hours are able to 



The happy, that lasted my whole life 

long : 

For a i»roraise broke, not for first 

words spoke, 

The true, the only, that turn my grave 

To a blaze of joy and a crash of song. 



Witness beforehand ! Off I trip 
On a safe path gay through the 
flowers you flung : 
My very name made great l\v your lip, 
And my heart aglow with the good 
I know 
Of a perfect year when we both were 
young, 
And I tasted the angels' fellowship. 



Anrl witness, moreover . . . Ah, but 
wait ! 
I spy the loop whence an arrow 
shoots ! 
It may be for yourself, when j-ou 
meditate, 
That you grieve — for slain ruth, 
miu-dered truth : 
" Though falsehood escape in the end, 
wliat boots ? 
How truth would have triumphed ! " 
— you sigh too late. 



Ay, who would have triumphed like 
you, I say ! 
Well, it is lost now ; well, you must 
bear. 
Abide and grow fit for a better day. 
You should hardly grudge, could I 
he your judge ! 
But husii ! For you, can be no de- 
si)air : 
There's amends : 'tis a secret ; hope 
and pray ! 



For I was true at least — oh, true 
enough ! 
And, Dear, truth is not as good as 
it seems ! 
Commend me to conscience ! Idle 
stuff! 
Much help is in mine, as I mope and 
pine, 
And skulk through da}-, and scowl in 
my dreams 
At my swan's obtaining the crow's 
rebuff. 



TOO LATE. 



141 



W 



XV. 

Men tell me of truth now — " False ! " 

I cry : 
Of beauty — "A mask, friend ! Look 

beneath ! " 
TVe take our own method, the Devil 

and T, 
T\'itli pleasant and fair and wise 

and rare : 
nd the best we wish to what lives, 

is — death ; 
Which even in wishing, perhaps we 

lie ! 



XVT. 

Far better commit a fault and have 
done — 
As you. Dear ! — forever : and 
choose the pure, 
And look where the healing waters 
run. 
And strive and strain to he good 
again, 
And a place in the other world in- 
sure, 
All glass and gold, with God for its 
sun. 

XVII. 

Misery ! What shall I say or do ? 
I cannot ad\-ise, or, at least, per- 
suade. 
Most like, you are glad you deceived 
me — rue 
No whit of the wrong : you endured 
too long, 
Have done no evil and want no aid, 
Will live the old life out and chance 
the new. 

xvni. 
And your sentence is written all the 
same, 
And I can do nothing, — pray, per- 
haj>s : 
But somehow the world pursues its 
game, — 
If I pray, if I curse, — for hetter or 
worse : 
And my faith is torn to a thousand 
scraps, 
And my heart feels ice while my 
words breathe flame. 



Dear, I look from my hiding-place. 
Are you still so fair ? Have you 
still the eves ? 



Be happy ! Add but the other grace. 
Be good ! Why want what the 
angels vaunt ? 
I knew you once : hut in Paradise, 
H we meet, I will pass nor turn 
my face. 



TOO LATE. 



Here was I with my arm and heart 
And brain, all yours for a word, a 
want 
Put into a look — just a look, your 
part, — 
Wliile mine, to repay it . . . vainest 
vaunt, 
Were the woman, that's dead, alive 
to hear, 
Had her lover, that's lost, love's 
proof to show ! 
But I cannot show it ; you cannot 
speak 
From the churchyard neither, miles 
removed, 
Though I feel by a pulse ^v-ithin my 
cheek. 
Which stabs and stops, that the 
woman I loved 
Needs help in her grave and finds 
none near. 
Wants warmth from the heart which 
sends it — so ! 



n 
Did T speak once angrily, all the drear 
days 
You lived, you woman I loved so 
well, 
Who married the other? Blame or 
praise. 
Where was the use then ? Time 
would tell, 
And the end declare what man for you, 
W'-^at woman for me was the choice 
of God. 
But, Edith dead ! no doubting more ! 

I used to sit and look at my life 
As it rippled and ran till, right before, 
A great stone stopped it : oh, the 
strife 
Of waves at the stone some devil 
threw 
In mv life's midcurrent, thwarting 
God! 



142 



TOO LATE. 



But either I thoup:lit, " They may 
churn and cliule 
A while. — my waves which came 
for their joy 
And found this horrible stone full- 
tide : 
Yet I see just a thread escape, 
deploy 
Through the evening-country, silent 
and safe, 
And it suffers no more till it finds 
the sea." 
Or else I would think, " Perhaps some 
night 
When new things happen, a meteor- 
ball 
May slip through the sky in a line of 
light, 
And earth breathe hard, and land- 
marks fall, 
And my waves no longer champ nor 
chafe, 
Since a stone will have rolled from 
its place : let be ! " 

IV. 

But, dead ! All's done with : wait 
who may. 
Watch and wear and wonder who 
will. 
Oh, my whole life that ends to-day ! 
Oh, mv soul's sentence, sounding 
stiil, 
** The woman is dead, that was none 
of his ; 
And the man, that was none of hers, 
may go ! " 
There's only the past left : worry that ! 
Wreak, like a bull, on the euii)ty 
coat, 
Rage, its late wearer is laughing at ! 
Tear the collar to rags, having 
missed his throat ; 
Strike stupidly on — '* This, this, and 
tills, 
When^, I would that a bosom re- 
ceived the blow I " 



I ought to have done more : once my 
spee(!]> 
And once your answer, and there, 
the ('11(1, 
And Edith was lienceforth oi\t of 
reach ! 
Why, nu-n do more to deserve a 
friend, 



Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise, 
Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in 
the face. 
Why, better even have burst like a 
thief 
And borne you away to a rock for 
us two, 
In a moment's horror, bright, bloody, 
and brief. 
Then changed to myself again — "I 
slew 
Myself in that moment ; a ruffian 
lies 
Somewhere : your slave, see, born 
in his place ! " 

vr. 
What did the other do ? You be 
judge ! 
Look at us, Edith ! Here are we 
brth ! 
Give him his six whole j'ears : I 
grudge 
None of the life with you, nay, I 
loathe 
Mj'self that I grudged his start in 
advance 
Of me who could overtake and 
pass. 
But, as if he loved you ! No, not 
he, 
Nor any one else in the world, 'tis 
plain : 
Who ever heard that another, free 
As I, young, prosperous, sound, and 
sane, 
Poured life out, proffered it — "Half 
a glance 
Of those eyes of yours antJ I drop 
the glass ! " 



Handsome, were you? 'Tis more 
than they heUi, 
More than they said ; I was 'ware 
and watclied : 
I was the 'scapegrace, this rat belled 
The cat, this fool got his whiskers 
scratched : 
The others? No head that was 
turned, no heart 
Broken, my lady, assure yourself ! 
Each soon made liis mind up ; so and 
so 
ISIarried a dancer, such and such 
StoUi his friend's wife, stagnated slow, 
Or maundered, unable to do as 
much, 



TOO LATE. 



143 



And muttered of peace where he had 
no i»art : 
While, hid in the closet, laid on the 
shelf,— 



On the whole, vou were let alone, I 
think! 
So, YOU looked to the other, who 
acquiesced ; 
My rival, the proud man, — prize 
your pink 
Of poets ! A poet he was ! I've 
.s:ue!>sed : 
He rliynied yoa his rubbish nobody 
read. 
Loved von and doved vou — did not 
I laugh ! 
There was a prize ! But we both 
were tried. 
O heart of mine, marked broad 
with her mark, 
Teiel. found wanting?, set aside, 
Scorne<l ! See, I bleed these tears 
in the dark 
Till comfort come and the last be 
bled: 
He ? He is tagging your epitaph. 



If it would only come over again ! 
— Time to be patient with me, and 
prolje 
This heart till you punctured the 
proper vein. 
Just to learn what blood is : twitch 
the rol»e 
From that blank lay-figure your fancy 
draped. 
Prick the leathern heart till the — 
verses spirt ! 
And late it was easy ; late, yon 
walked 
TVTiere a friend might meet you ; 
Edith's name 
Arose to one's lip if one laughed or 
talked ; 
If I heard good news, you heard the 
same ; 
When I woke, I knew that your breath 
escaijed ; 
I could bide my time, keep alive, 
alert. 

X. 

And alive I shall keep and long, you 
will see ! 
I knew a man, was kicked like a 
dog 



From gntter to cessi>ool : what cared 
he 
So long as he picked from the filth 
his prog ? 
He saw youth, beauty, and genius die. 
And jollily lived to his hundredth 
year. 
But I will live otherwise : none of 
such life ! 
At once I begin as I mean to end. 
Go on with the world, get gold in its 
strife. 
Give your spouse the slip, and be- 
tray your friend ! 
There are two who decline, a woman 
and I, 
And enjoy our death in the dark- 
ness here. 



I liked that way you had with your 
curls 
Wound to a ball in a ©et behind : 
Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker- 
girl's, 
And your mouth — there was never, 
to my mind. 
Such a funny mouth, for it would not 
shut : ' 
And the dented chin too — what a 
chin ! 
There were certain ways when you 
spoke, soiue words 
That you know you never could pro- 
nounce : 
You were thin, however ; like a bird's 
Your hand seemed — some woidd 
say, the p«^nnce 
Of a scaly-footed hawk — all but ! 
The world was right when it called, 
you thin. 



But I turn my back on the world : I 
take 
Your hand, and kneel, and lay to 
my lips. 
Bid me live, Edith ! Let me slake 
Thirst at your presence ! Fear no 
slips ! ' 
'Tis your slave .shall pay, while his 
" soul endures. 
Full due, love's whole debt, siimr- 
mum jux. 
My queen shall have high observance, 
planned 
Courtship made perfect, no least 
line 



144 



BIFURCATION. 



Crossed without warrant. There you 
stand, 
Warm too, and white too : would 
this wine 
Had washed all over that body of 
yours, 
Ere I drank it, and you down with 
it, thus ! 



BIFURCATION. 

"We v^ere two lovers ; let me lie by 

her. 
My tomb beside her tomb. On hers 

inscribe — 
" I loved him ; but my reason bade 

prefer 
Duty to love, reject the tempter's 

bribe 
Of rose and lily when each path di- 
verged, 
And either I must pace to life's far 

end 
As love should lead me, or, as duty 

urged, 
Plod the worn causeway arm in arm 

with friend. 
So, truth turned falsehood : ' How I 

loathe a flower, 
How prize the pavement ! ' still ca- 
ressed his ear — 
The deafish friend's — through life's 

day, hour by hour, 
As he laughed "^(c<^"gliing) *Ay, it 

would appear ! ' 
But deep within my heart of hearts 

there hid 
Ever the confidence, amends for all, 
That heaven repairs what wrong 

earth's journey did, 
When love from life-long exile comes 

at call. 
Duty and love, one broadway, were 

the best — 
Who doubts ? But one or other was 

to choose. 
I chose the darkling half, and wait 

tlie rest 
In that new world where light and 

darkness fuse." 

Inscribe on mine — "I loved her: 

love's track lay 
O'er sand and pebble, as all travellers 

know. 



T>\ity led through a smiling country, 

"' g^iy 

With greensward where the rose and 

lily blow. 
' Our roads are diverse : farewell, 

love ! ' said she : 
' "Tis duty I abide by : homely sward 
And not the rock-rough picturesque 

for 7ne ! 
Above, where both roads join, I wait 

reward. 
Be you as constant to the path where- 
on 
I leave j^ou planted ! ' But man needs 

must move. 
Keep moving — whither, when the 

star is gone 
Whereby he steps secure nor strays 

from love ? 
No stone but I was tripped by, stum- 
bling-block 
But brought me to confusion. Where 

I fell. 
There I lay fiat, if moss disguised the 

rock : 
Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and 

cried, ' All's well ! 
Duty be mine to tread in that high 

sphere 
Where love from duty ne'er disparts, 

I trust. 
And two halves make that whole, 

whereof — since here 
One must suffice a mau — why, this 

one must ! ' " 

Inscribe each tomb thus : then, some 

sage acquaint 
The simple — which holds sinner, 

which holds saint 1 



A LIKENESS. 



Some people hang portraits up 
In a room where they dine or sup : 
And the wife clinks tea-things under, 
And her cousin, he stirs Iiis cup. 
Asks, "Who was the lady, I won- 
der?"— 
" 'Tis a daub John bought at a sale," 
Quoth the wife, — looks black as 

thunder. 
" What a shade beneath her nose ! 
Snuff-taking, I sujipose," — 
Adds the cousin, while John's corns 
ail. 



MAY AND DEATH. 



145 



Or else, there's no wife in the case, 
But the portrait's queen of the place, 
Alone mid the other spoils 
Of youth, — masks, gloves, and foils, 
And pi{)e-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, 

jasmine. 
And the long whip, the tandem- 
lasher, 
And the cast from a fist (" not, alas ! 

mine. 
But my master's, the Tipton Slasher ") 
And the cards wliei'e pistol-balls mark 

ace. 
And a satin shoe used for a cigar- 
case, 
And the chamois-horns (" shot in the 

Chablais") 
And prints — Rarey drumming on 

Cruiser, 
And Sayers, our champion, the 

bruiser. 
And the little edition of Rabelais : 
Where a friend, with both hands in 

his pockets 
May saunter up close to examine it, 
And remark a good deal of Jane 

Lamb in it, 
"But the eyes are half out of their 

sockets ; 
That hair's not so bad, where the 

gloss is, 
But they've made the girl's nose a 

proboscis : 
Jane Lamb, that we danced with at 

Vichy ! 
"What, is not she Jane? Then, who 

is she?'' 

All that I own is a print, 
An etching, a mezzotint ; 
'Tis a study, a fancy, a fiction. 
Yet a fact (take my conviction), 
Because it has more than a hint 
Of a certain face, I never 
Saw elsewhere touch or trace of 
In women I've seen the lace of : 
Just an etching, and, so far, clever. 

I keep my prints an iixibroglio, 
Fifty in one portfolio. 
When somebody tries my claret, 
We turn round chairs to the fire. 
Chirp over days in a garret. 
Chuckle o'er increase of salary, 
Taste the good fruits of our leisure, 
Talk about pencil and lyre. 
And the National Portrait Gallery : 
Then I exhibit my treasure. 



After we've turned over twenty, 
And the debt of wonder my crony 

ow^es 
Is paid to my Marc Antonios, 
He stops ine — " Festina lente I 
What's that sweet thing there, the 

etching ? " 
How my waistcoat strings want 

stretching, 
How my cheeks grow red as toma- 
toes. 
How my heart leaps ! But hearts, 
after leaps, ache. 

"By the by, you must take, for a 

keepsake, 
That other, you praised, of Volpato's." 
The fool ! would he try a flight far- 
ther and say — 
He never saw, never before to-day. 
What was able to take his breath 

away, 
A face to lose youth for, to occupy 

age 
With the dream of, meet death with, — 

why, I'll not engage 
But that, half in a rapture and half in 

a rage, 
I should toss him the thing's self — 

" 'Tis only a duplicate, 
A thing of no value ! Take it, I 

supi3licate ! " 



MAY AND DEATH. 



I WISH that when you died last May, 
Charles, there had died along with 

\'OU 

Three"^ l^arts of spring's delightful 
things ; 
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too. 



A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! 
There must be many a pair of 
friends 
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm 
Moon-births and the long evening- 
ends. 



So, for their sake, be May still May ! 

Let their new time, as mine of old. 
Do all it did for me : I bid 

Sweet sights and sounds throng 
manifold. 



146 



A FORGIVENESS. 



Only, one little sight, one plant, 
Woods have in May, tliat starts up 
green 
Save a sole streak which, so to speak, 
Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves be- 
tween, — 



That, they might spare ; a certain 
wood 
Might miss the plant ; their loss 
were small : 
But I, — whene'er the leaf grows 
there, 
Its drop comes from my heart, 
that's all. 



A FORGIVEXESS. 

I AM indeed the personage you know. 
As for my wife, — what happened 

long ago — 
Yon have a right to question me, as I 
Am bound to answer. 

(" Son, a fit reply ! " 
The monk half spoke, half ground 

through his clinched teeth, 
At the confession-grate I knell 

beneath.) 

Thus then all happened, Father! 
Power and place 

I had as still I have. I ran life's 
race, 

With the whole world to see, as only 
strains 

His strength some athlete whose pro- 
digious gains 

Of good appal him : happy to ex- 
cess, — 

Work freely done should balance 
happiness 

Fully enjoyed ; and, since beneath 
my roof 

Housed she who made home heaven, 
in heaven's behoof 

I went forth every day, and all day 
long 

Worked for the world. Look, how 
the laborer's song 

Cheers him ! Thus sang my soul, 
at each sharp throe 

Of lalM^ring Hesh and blood — "She 
loves me so ! " 



One day, perhaps such song so knit 

the nerve 
That woik grew play and vanished. 

" I desi-rve 
Haply my heaven an hour before the 

tinie ! " 
I lauglied, as silverly the clockhouse- 

chiiue 
Surprised me passing through the pos- 
tern gate 
— Not the main entry where the 

menials wait 
And wonder why the world's affairs 

allow 
The master sudden leisure. That 

was how 
I took the private garden-way for 

once. 

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, 

ensconce 
Himself behind the porphyry' vase, a 

man. 

My fancies in the natural order ran : 

"A spy, — perhaps a foe in ambus- 
cade, — 

A thief, — more like, a sweetheart of 
some maid 

Who pitched on the alcove for tryst 
perhaps." 

" Stand there ! " I bid. 

AVhereat my man but wraps 
His face the closelier with uj^lifted 

arm 
Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in 

1)1 ind alarm 
This and that pedestal as, — stretch 

and stoop, — 
Now in, now out of sight, he thrids 

the group 
Of statues, marble god and goddess 

ranged 
Each side the pathway, till the gate's 

exchanged 
For safety : one step thence, the 

street, you know ! 

Thus far I followed with my gaze. 

Then, slow, 
Near on admiringly, I breathed again. 
And — back to that last fancy of the 

train — 
•' A danger risked for hope of just a 

word 
With — which of all my nest may be 

the bird 



A FORGIVEXESS. 



U' 



This poacher coverts for her plumage, 

pray ? 
Carmen? Juaaa? Carmen seems too 

jrav 
For snch adrentTrre, while Juana's 

grave 
— Won 111 scorn the folly. I appland 

the knave ! 
He hail the eye, could single from 

my brood 
His proper fledgeling ! " 

As I tamed, there stood 
In face of me, my wife stone-still 

stone-white. 
Whether one bound had brought her, 

— at first sight 

Of what she judged the encounter, 
sure to be 

Next moment, of the venturous man 
and me, — 

Brought her to clutch and keep me 
from my prey : 

"Whether impelled because her death 
no day 

Could come so absolutely opportune 

As now at joy's height, like a year in 
June 

Stayed at the fall of its first ripened 
rose ; 

Or whether hungry for my hate — 
who knows ? — 

Eager to end an irk.some lie, and taste 

Our tingling true relation, hate em- 
braced 

By hate one naked moment : — any- 
how 

There stone-still stone-white stood 
my wife, but now 

The woman who made heaven Mrithin 
my house. 

Ay, she who faced me was my very 
spouse 

As well as love — you are to recollect ! 

" Stay ! " she said. " Keep at least 

one soul unspecked 
With crime, that's spotless hitherto 

— your own ! 

Kill me who court the blessing, who 

alone 
Was, am, and shall he guiltv, first to 

last ! 
The man lay helpless in the toils I 

cast 
About him, helpless as the statue 

there 
Against that strangling bell-flower's 

bondage : tear 



Away and tread to dust the para- 
site. 
But do the passive marble no despite ! 
I love him as I hate you. Kill me ! 

Strike 
At one blow both infinitudes alike 
Out of existence — hate and love ! 

Wlience love ? 
That's safe inside my heart, nor will 

remove 
For any searching of your steel, I 

think. 
Whence hate ? The secret lay on lip, 

at brink 
Of speech, in one fierce tremble to 

escape. 
At every form wherein your love took 

shape. 
At each new provocation of vour kiss. 
KiU me ! " 

We went in. 

Next day after this, 
I felt as if the speech might come. I 

spoke — 
Kasily, after all. 

•' The lifted cloak 

Was screen sufficient : I concern my- 
self 

Hardlv with laving hands on who for 
pelf — 

Whatever the ignoble kind — may 
prowl and brave 

Cuffing and kicking proi>er to a knave 

Detected by my household's vigilance. 

Enough of such ! As for my love-ro- 
mance — 

I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my 
eyes 

And wake and wonder how the film 
could rise 

Which changed for me a barber's 
basin straight 

Into — Mambrino's helm ? I hesitate 

Nowise to sav — God's sacramental 



cup 



Wliy should I blame the brass which, 

burnished up. 
Will blaze, to aU but me, as good as 

gold ? 
To me — a warning I wa<5 overbold 
In judging metals. The • Hidalgo 

waked 
Only to die, if I remember, — staked 
His life upon the basin's worth, and 

lost : 
While I confess torpidity at most 



148 



A FORGIVENESS. 



In here and there a limb ; but, lame 
ami halt, 

Still should I work on, still reimir my 
fault 

Ere I took rest in death, — no fear at 
all! 

Now, work — no word before the cur- 
tain fall ! " 

The " curtain " ? That of death on 

life, I Tueant : 
My "word" permissible in death's 

event, 
"Would be — truth, soul to soul ; for, 

otherwise, 
Day by day, three years long, there 

had to rise 
And, ni^ht by night, to fall upon our 

stage — 
Ours, doomed to public play by heri- 
tage — 
Another curtain, when the world, 

perforce 
Our critical assembly, in due course 
Came and went, witnessing, gave 

praise or blame 
To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the 

game 
If, sutt'ered to set foot behind our 

scene. 
The world had witnessed how stage- 
king and queen, 
Gallant and lady, but a minute since 
Enarining each the other, would 

evince 
No sign of recognition as they took 
His way and her way to whatever nook 
Waited them in the darkness either 

side 
Of that bright stage where lately 

groom and bride 
Had fired the audience to a frenzj^-fit 
Of sympathetic rajiture — every whit 
Earned as the curtain fell on her and 

me, 
— Actors. Three whole j-ears, noth- 
ing was to see 
But calm and concord : where a 

speech was due 
There came the speech ; when smiles 

were wanted too 
Smiles were as ready. In a place like 

mine, 
AVhere foreign and domestic cares 

combine. 
There's audience every day and all 

day long ; 
But finally the last of the whole 

throng 



Who linger lets one see his back. For 

her — 
Why, liberty and liking : I aver, 
Liking and liberty! For me — I 

breathed, 
Let my face rest from every wrinkle 

wreathed 
Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned 

my task 
Of personation till next day bade 

mask. 
And quietly betook me from that 

world' 
To the real world, not pageant : there 

unfurled 
In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted 

power. 
Three years I worked, each minute of 

each hour 
Not claimed by acting : — work I may 

dispense 
With talk about, since work in e\'i- 

dence. 
Perhaps in history ; who knows or 

cares ? 

After three years, this way, all una- 
wares. 

Out acting ended. She and I, at close 

Of a loud night-feast, led, between two 
rows 

Of bending male and female loyalty, 

Our lord tlie king down staircase, 
while, held high 

At arm's length did the twisted tapers' 
tiare 

Herald his passage from our palace 
where 

Such visiting left glory evermore. 

Again the ascent in public, till at door 

As we two stood by the saloon — now 
blank 

And disencumbered of its guests — 
there sank 

A whisper in my ear, so low and yet 

So unmistakable ! 

" I half forget 

The chamber you repair to, and I want 

Occasion for one short word — if you 
grant 

That grace — within a certain room 
you called 

Our * iStiKlf/,' for you wrote there while 
I scrawled 

Some paper full of faces for my sjiort. 

That rt)om I can remember. Just one 
short 

Word with you there, for the remem- 
brance' sake ! " 



A FORGIVENESS. 



149 



** Follow me thither ! " I replied. 

We break 
The gloom a little, as with guiding 

lamp 
I lead the way, leave warmth and 

cheer, by damp. 
Blind, disused, serpentining ways afar 
From where the habitable chambers 

are, — 
Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled 

through the stone, — 
Always in silence, — till I reach the 

lone 
Chamber sepulchred for my very own 
Out of the palace-quarry. When a 

boy. 
Here was my fortress, stronghold from 

annoy. 
Proof-positive of ownership ; in youth 
I garnered up my gleanings here — 

uncouth 
But precious relics of vain hopes, vain 

fears ; 
Finally, this became in after-years 
My closet of intrenchment to with- 
stand 
Invasion of the foe on every hand — 
The multifarious herd in bower and 

hall, 
State-room, — rooms whatsoe'er the 

style, which call 
On masters to be mindful that, before 
Men, they must look like men and 

soniething more. 
Here, — when our lord the king's be- 

stowment ceased 
To deck me on the day that, golden- 
fleeced, 
I touched ambition's height, — 'twas 

here, released 
From glory (always symbolled by a 

chain !) 
No sooner Avas I privileged to gain 
My secret domicile than glad I flung 
That last toy on the table — gazed 

where hung 
On hook my father's gift, the arque- 

buss — 
And asked myself " Shall I envisage 

thus 
The new prize and the old prize, 

when I reach 
Another year's experience? — own 

that each 
Equalled advantage — sportsman's — 

statesman's tool ? 
That brought me down an eagle, this 

— a fool!" 



Into which room on entry, I set down 
The lamp, and turning saw whose 

rustled gown 
Had told me my wife followed, pace 

for pace. 
Each of us looked the other in the 

face. 
She spoke. "Since I could die 

now" . . . 

(To explain 
Why that first struck me, know — 

not once again 
Since the adventure at the porphyry's 

edge 
Three years before, which sundered 

like a wedge 
Her soul from mine, — though daily, 

smile to smile. 
We stood before the public, — all the 

while 
Not once had I distinguished, in that 

face 
I paid observance to, the faintest 

trace 
Of feature more than requisite for 

eyes 
To do their duty by and recognize : 
So did I force mine to obey my will 
And pry no farther. There exists 

such skill, — 
Those know who need it. What 

physician shrinks 
From needful contact with a corpse ? 

He drinks 
No plague so long as thirst for knowl- 
edge, — not 
An idler impulse, — prompts inquiry. 

What, 
And will you disbelieve in power to 

bid 
Our spirit back to bounds, as though 

we chid 
A child from scrutiny that's just and 

right 
In manhood ? Sense, not soul, ac- 
complished sight. 
Reported daily she it was — not how 
Nor why a change had come to cheek 

and brow.) 

" Since I could die now of the truth 

concealed, 
Yet dare not, must not die, — so seems 

revealed 
The Virgin's mind to me, — for death 

means peace. 
Wherein no lawful part have I, whose 

lease 



150 



A FORGIVENESS. 



Of life and punishment the truth 

avowed 
May haply iengjthen, — let me push 

the shroud 
Away, that steals to muffle ere is just 
My penance-lire in snow ! I dare — I 

must 
Live, bv avowal of the truth — this 

truth — 
I loved you ! Thanks for the fresh 

serpent's tooth 
That, by a prompt new pang more 

exquisite 
Than all preceding torture, proves 

me riglit ! 
I loved you yet I lost you ! May I 

go 
Burn to the ashes, now my shame you 

know? " 

I think there never was such — how 



express 



9 



Horror coquetting with voluptuous- 
ness, 
As in those arms of Eastern work- 

mansliip — 
Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend 

and rip, 
Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate 

so many ways, 
Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays 
Love still at work with the artificer 
Througliout his quaint devising. Why 

l^refer. 
Except for love's sake, that a blade 

sliould writhe 
And bicker like a tlame ? — now play 

the scythe 
As if some broad neck tempted, — 

now contract 
And needle off into a fineness lacked 
For just that ]iuncture which the heart 

demands ? 
Then, such adornment ! "Wherefore 

need our hands 
Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold 
Roughened for use, but jewels ? Nav, 

behold ! 
Fancy my favorite — Avhich I seem to 

grasp 
"While I describe the luxury. No asp 
Is diapered more delicate round 

tliroat 
Than this l)elow the handle ! These 

denote 
— These mazy lines meandering, to 

end 
Only in flesh they open — what in- 
tend 



They else but water-purlings — pale 

contrast 
"With the life-crimson where they 

blend at last ? 
And mark the handle's dim pellucid 

green, 
Carved, the hard jadestone, as you 

pinch a bean, 
Into a sort of imrrot-bird ! He pecks 
A grape-bunch ; his two ej'es are 

ruby-specks 
Pure from the mine : seen this way, 

— glassy blank. 
But turn tliem, — lo the inmost fire, 

that shrank 
From sparkling, sends a red dart right 

to aim ! 
"Why did I choose such toys ? Per- 
haps the game 
Of peaceful men is warlike, just as 

men 
"War-wearied get amusement from that 

pen 
And paper we grow sick of — statesfolk 

tired 
Of merely (when such measures are 

required) 
Dealing out doom to people bj^ three 

words, 
A signature and seal : we play with 

swords 
Suggestive of quick process. That is 

how 
I came to like the toys described you 

now, 
Store of which glittered on the walla 

and strewed 
The table, even, while mj^ wife pur- 
sued 
Her purpose to its ending. " Now you 

know 
This shame, my three years' torture, 

let me go, — 
Burn to the very ashes ! You — I 

lost. 
Yet you — I loved ! " 

The thing I pity most 
In men is— action prompted by sur- 

l^rise 
Of anger : men ? nay, bulls — whose 

onset lies 
At instance of the firework and the 

goad 1 
Once the foe prostrate, — trampling 

once bestowed, — 
Prompt follows placability, regret, 
Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmtb 

never yet 



A FORGIVENESS. 



151 



Betokened strong will ! As no leap 

of pulse 
Pricked me, that first time, so did 

none convulse 
My veins at this occasion for resolve. 
Had that devolved which did not then 

devolve 
Upon me, I had done — what now to 

do 
Was quietly apparent. 

" Tell me who 
The man was, crouching bj^ the por- 
phyry vase ! " 

"-No, never! All was folly in his 
case, 

All guilt in mine. I tempted, he com- 
plied." 

** And yet you loved me ? " 

" Loved you. Double-dyed 
In folly and in guilt, I thought you 

gave 
Your heart and soul away from me to 

slave 
At statecraft. Since my right in you 

seemecLlost, 
I stung myself to teach you, to your 

cost, 
"What you rejected could be prized 

beyond 
Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw 

a fond 
Look on, a fatal Avord to." 

"And you still 
Love me ? Do I conjecture well, or 
ill?" 

" Conjecture — well, or ill ! I had 

three years 
To spend in learning you." 

" We both are peers 
In knowledge, therefore : since three 

years are spent 
Ere til us much of yourself I learn — 

who went 
Back to the house, that day, and 

brought my mind 
To bear upon your action : uncora- 

bined 
Motive from motive, till the dross, 

deprived 
Of every purer particle, survived 
At last in native simple hideousness, 
Utter contemptibility, nor less 



Nor more. Contemptibility — exempt 

How could I, from its proper due — 
contempt ? 

I have too much despised you to di- 
vert 

My life from its set course by help or 
hurt 

Of your all-despicable life — perturb 

The calm I work in, by — men's 
mouths to curb. 

Which at such news were clamorous 
enough — 

Men's ej"es to shut before my broid- 
ered stuff 

With the huge hole there, my em- 
blazoned wall 

Blank where a scutcheon hung, — by, 
worse than all, 

Each day's procession, my paraded life 

Robbed and impoverished through the 
wanting wife 

— Now that my life (which means — 
my work) was grown 

Riches indeed ! Once, just this worth 
alone 

Seemed work to have, that profit 
gained thereby 

Of good and praise would — how re- 
warding! y ! — 

Fall at 3-our feet, — a crown I hoped 
to cast 

Before your love, my love should 
crown at last. 

No love remaining to cast crown 
before. 

My love stopped work now : but con- 
tempt the more 

Impelled me task as ever head and 
hand, 

Because the very fiends weave ropes 
of sand 

Rather than taste pure hell in idle- 
ness. 

Therefore I kept my memory down 
by stress 

Of daily work I had no mind to stay 

For the world's wonder at the wife 
away. 

Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, 

For I despised you ! But your words 
retrieve 

Importantly the past. No hate as- 
sumed 

The mask of love at any time ! There 
gloomed 

A moment w^hen love took hate's 
semblance, urged 

By causes you declare ; but love's 
self purged 



152 



CENCIAJA. 



Awaj^ a fancied \Yrong I did both loves 

— Yours and luy owd : by no hate's 
help, it proves, 

Purgation was attemi^ted. Then, you 
rise 

High by how many a grade ! I did 
despise — 

I do but hate you. Let hate's pun- 
ishment 

Replace contempt's ! First step to 
which ascent — 

Write down your own words I re- 
utter you ! 

'/ loved my husband and I hated — 
loho 

He was, I took vp as my first chance, 
mere 

Mud-ball to flinr/ and make love foul 
with ! ' Here 

Lies paper ! " 

" Would ray blood for ink suffice ! " 

"It may : this minion from a land of 

spice. 
Silk, feather — every bird of jewelled 

breast — 
This poniard's beauty, ne'er so 

lightly i>rest 
Above your heart there." . . . 

"Thus?" 

" It flows, I see. 
Dip there the point and write ! " 

Dictate to me ! 



Na3', I remember.' 



And she wrote the words. 
I read them. Then — " Since love, in 

you, affords 
License for hate, in me, to quench (I 

say) 
Contempt — why, hate itself has 

jni-ssed away 
In vengeance — foreign to contemj^t. 

Depart 
Peacefully to that death which East- 
ern art 
Imbued tbis weapon with, if tales be 

true ! 
Love will succeed to hate. I pardon 

you — 
Dead in our chamber ! " 

True as truth the tale. 
She died ere morning ; then, I saw 
bow pale 



Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint- 
disguise. 

And what a hollow darkened 'neath 
her eyes. 

Now that 1 used my own. She sleeps, 
as erst 

Beloved, in this your church : ay, 
yours ! 

Immersed 

In thought so deeply, Father ? Sad, 
perhajis? 

For whose sake, hers or mine or his 
who wraps 

— Still plain I seem to see ! — about 
his head 

The idle cloak, — about his heart (in- 
stead 

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may 
elude 

My vengeance in the cloister's soli- 
tude ? 

Hardly, I think ! As little helped 
ills brow 

The cloak then. Father — as your 
grate helps now ! 



CEXCIAJA. 



Offni cencio vuol entrare in bucato. — Ital- 
ian Proverb. 

May I print, Shelley, how it came to 

pass 
That when your Beatrice seemed — 

by lapse 
Of many a long month since her sen- 
tence fell — 
Assured of pardon for the parricide, — 
By intercession of stanch friends, or, 

say. 
By certain pricks of conscience in the 

Pope, 
Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt, — 
Suddenly all things changed,, and 

Clement grew 
"Stern," as you state, "nor to be 

moved nor bent, 
But said these three words coldly, ' She 

must die ; ' 
Subjoining 'Pardon? Paolo Santa 

Crore 
Murdered his mother also yestereve. 
And he is fed: she shall not flee, (t^ 

least ! '" 



CENCIAJA. 



153 



— So, to the letter, sentence was ful- 
filled ? 
Shelley, may I condense verbosity 
That lies before me, into some few 

words 
Of English, and illustrate your superb 
Achievement by a rescued anecdote, 
No great things, only new and true 

beside ? 
As if some mere familiar of a house 
Should venture to accost the group 

at gaze 
Before its Titian, famed the wide 

world through, 
And supplement such pictured mas- 
terpiece 
By whisper " Searching in the ar- 
chives here, 
I found the reason of the Lady's fate, 
And how by accident it came to pass 
She wears the halo and displays the 

palm : 
Who, haply, else had never suffered 

— no. 

Nor graced our gallery, by conse- 
quence." 
Who loved the work would like the 

little news : 
Who lauds your poem lends an ear to 

me 
Relating how the penalty was paid 
By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called 
Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise. 
For his complicity in matricide 
With Paolo his own brother, — he 

whose crime 
And flight induced " those three words 

— She must die." 

Thus I unroll you then the manu- 
script. 

"God's justice " — (of the multi- 
plicity 
Of such communications extant still, 
Recording, each, injustice done by 

God 
In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, 
Scarce one but leads off to the self- 
same tune) — 
" God's justice, tardy though it prove 

perchance, 
Rests never on the track until it reach 
Delinquency. In proof I cite the 

case 
Of Paolo Santa Croce." 

Many times 
The youngster, — having been impor- 
tunate 



That Marchesine Costanza, who re- 
mained 
His widowed mother, should supplant 

the heir 
Her elder son, and substitute himself 
In sole possession of her faculty, — 
And meeting just as often with re- 
buff, — 
Blinded by so exorbitant a lust 
Of gold, the youngster straightway 

tasked his wits, 
Casting about to kill the lady — thus. 

He first, to cover his iniquity, 

Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then 

Authoritative loi'd, acquainting him 

Their mother was contamination — 
wrought 

Like hell-fire in the beauty of their 
House 

By dissoluteness and abandonment 

Of soul and bodj'^ to impure delight. 

Moreover, since she suffered from 
disease. 

Those symptoms which her death 
made manifest 

Hydroi^tic, he affirmed were fruits of 
sin 

About to bring confusion and dis- 
grace 

Upon the ancient lineage and high 
fame 

O' the family, when published. Duty- 
bound, 

He asked his brother — what a son 
should do ? 

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo 

heard 
By letter, being absent at his land 
Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: 
"It must behoove a son, — things 

haply so, — 
To act as honor prompts a cavalier 
And son, perform his duty to all 

three. 
Mother and brothers" —here advice 

broke off. 

By which advice informed and for- 
tified 

As he professed himself — as bound 
by birth 

To hear God's voice in primogeni- 
ture — 

Paolo, who kept his mother company 

In her domain Subiaco, straightway 
dared 

His whole enormity of enterprise 



154 



CENCfAJA. 



And, falling on her, stabbed the lady 
dead : 

"Whose death demonstrated, her inno- 
cence. 

And liappened, — by the way, — since 
Jesus Christ 

Died to save man, just sixteen hun- 
dred years. 

Costanza was of aspect beautiful 

Exceedingh-, and seemed, although 
in age 

Sixty about, to far surpass her peers 

The coeraneous dames, in j-outh and 
grace. 

Done the misdeed, its author takes 
to flight, 

Foiling thereby the justice of the 
world : 

Not God's however, — God, be sure, 
knows well 

The way to clutch a culprit. Witness 
here ! 

The present sinner, when he least ex- 
pects, 

Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basi- 
licate, 

Stumbles upon his death by vio- 
lence. 

A man of blood assaults the man of 
blood 

And slays him somehow. This was 
afterward : 

Enough, he promptly met with his 
deserts, 

And, ending thus, permits we end 
with him. 

And push forthwith to this impor- 
tant point — 

His matricide fell out, of all the 
days. 

Precisely when the law-procedure 
closed 

Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's 
death 

Chargeal)le on his daughter, sons, and 
wife. 

" Thus patricide was matched with 
matricide," 

A poet not inelegantly rhymed : 

Nay, fratricide — those Princes Mas- 
simi ! — 

"Which so disturbed the spirit of the 
Pope 

That all tbe likelihood Rome enter- 
tained 

Of Beatrice's pardon vanished 
straight. 

And she endured the piteous death. 



Now see 
The sequel — what effect command- 
ment had 
For strict inquiry into this last case, 
\Yhen Cardinal Aldobrandini (great 
His efficacy — nephew to the Pope !) 
Was bidden crush — ay, though his 

very hand 
Got soiled i' the act — crime spawning 

ever^'where ! 
Because, when all endeavor had been 

used 
To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in 

vain — 
" Make perquisition," quoth our Emi- 
nence, 
" Throughout his now deserted domi- 
cile ! 
Ransack the palace, roof, and floor, to 

find 
If haply 2iX\\ scrap of writing, hid 
In nook or corner, may convict — who 

knows ? — 
Brother Onofrio of intelligence 
With brother Paolo, as in brother- 
hood 
Is but too likely : crime spawns every- 
where ! " 

And, every cranny searched accord- 
ingly. 
There conies to light — O lynx-eyed 

Cardinal ! — 
Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, 
The letter in reply to Paolo's jirayer, 
The word of counsel that — things 

proving so, 
Paolo should act the proper knightly 

]iart, 
And do as was incumbent on a son, 
A brother — and a mau of birth, be 
sure ! 

"Whereat immediately the oflicers 
Proceeded to arrest Onofrio — found 
At foot-ball, child's play, unaware of 

harm, 
Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at 

their seat 
^Slonte Giordano ; as he left the house 
He came upon the watch in wait for 

him 
Set by the Barigel, — was caught and 

caged. 

News of which capture being, that 
same hour, 
Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our 
Eminence 



CENCIAJA. 



155 



Commands Taverua, Governor and 

Judge, 
To have the jirocess in especial care, 
Be, first to last, not onh" jiresident 
In person, but inquisitor as well, 
Nor trust the by-work to a substitute : 
Bids him not, squeamish, keej) the 

bench, but scrub 
The floor of Justice, so to speak, — go 

try 
His best in prison with the criminal ; 
Promising, as reward for by-work 

done 
Fairly on all-fours, that, success ob- 
tained 
And crime avowed, or such conniv- 
ency 
^'ith crime as should procure a de- 
cent death — 
Himself will humbly beg — which 

means, procure — 
The Hat and Purple from his relative 
Tlie Pope, and so repay a diligence 
Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, 
Mounts jilainly here to Purple and 
the Hat. 

Whereupon did my lord the Gov- 
ernor 
So masterfully exercise the task 
Enjoined him, that he, daj^ by day, 

and week 
By week, and month by month, from 

first to last 
Deserved the prize : now, punctual at 

his place. 
Played Judge, and now, assiduous at 

his post, 
Inquisitor — pressed cushion and 

scoured i)lank, 
Early and late. Noon's fervor and 

night's chill, 
Naught moved whom morn would, 

purpling, make amends ! 
So that observers laughed as, many a 

day. 
He left home, in July when day is 

flame, 
Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged 
Into the vault where daylong night is 

ice. 
There passed his eight hours on a 

stretch, content. 
Examining Onofrio : all the stress 
Of all examination steadily 
Converging into one jHU-point, — he 

pushed 
Tentative now of head and now of 

heart. 



As when the nut-hatch taps and tries 

the nut 
This side and that side till the kernel 

sounds, — 
So did he press the sole and single 

point 

— What was the very meaning of the 

phrase 
"Do ichat beseems an honored cava- 
lier?" 

Which one persistent question-tor- 
ture, — plied 

Day by day, week by week, and month 
by month, 

Morn, noon, and night, — fatigued 
away a mind 

Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, 

And one vivacious memory gnawing 
there 

As when a corpse is coffined with a 
snake : 

— Fatigued Onofrio into what might 

seem 

Admission that perchance his judg- 
ment groped 

So blindly, feeling for an issue — aught 

With semblance of an issue from the 
toils 

Cast of a sudden round feet late so 
free, — 

He possibly might have envisaged, 
scarce 

Recoiled from — even were the issue 
death 

— Even her death whose life was death 

and worse ! 

Always provided that the charge of 
crime. 

Each jot and tittle of the charge were 
true. 

In such a sense, belike, he might ad- 
vise 

His brother to expurgate crime with 
.... well, 

With blood, if blood must iollow on 
" the course 

Taken as m'Kjht beseem a cavalier." 

AVhereupon process ended, and re- 
port 
Was made without a minute of delay 
To Clement, who, because of those two 

crimes 
O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late. 
Must needs impatiently desire result. 

Result obtained, he bade the Gov- 
ernor 



156 



CENC/AJA. 



Summon the Congregation and de- 

spatcli. 
Summons made, sentence passed ac- 
cordingly 
— Death by i)eheading. AVheu his 

death-decree 
T\'as intimated to Onofrio, all 
Man could do — that did he to save 

himself. 
'Twas much, the having gained for his 

defence 
The Advocate o'the Poor, with natural 

help 
Of many nohle friendly persons fain 
To disengage a man of family, 
So young too, from his grim entangle- 
ment. 
But Cardinal Aldohrandini ruled 
There must be no diversion of the law. 
Justice is justice, and the magistrate 
Bears not the sword in vain." AVho 
sins must die. 

So, the Marchese had his head cut 
off 
In Place Saint Angelo beside the 

Bridge, 
With Rome to see, a concourse infi- 
nite ; 
Where magnanimity demonstrating 
Adequate to his birth and breed,— 

poor boy ! — 
He made the people the accustomed 

speech. 
Exhorted them to true faith, honest 

works, 
And special good behavior as regards 
A j^arent of no matter what the sex. 
Bidding each son take warning from 

himself. 
Truly, it was considered in the boy 
Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap 
So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled 

ashore 
By such an angler as the Cardinal ! 
Why make confession of his privity 
To Paolo's enteri>rise ? Mere seal- 
ing lips — 
Or, better, saying, " When I coun- 
selled him 
* To do as n)if/ht brseom n cavalier, ' 
What could I mean but, ' Hide our 

parent's shame 
As Christian ought, by aid of Holy 

Church! 
Bury 7t in a convent — ay, beneath 
Enoucih dotation to prevent its (/host 
From troublinf/ earth ." " Mere saying 
thus, — 'tis plain. 



Not only were his life the reconipense, 

But he had manifestly proved him- 
self 

True Christian, and in lieu of pun- 
ishment 

Been jiraised of all men ! — So the 
populace. 

Anyhow, when the Pope made 

promise good 
(That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) 
And gave Taverna, who had toiled 

so much, 
A cardinal's equipment, some such 

word 
As this from mouth to ear went 

saucily : 
" Taverna's cap is dyed in what he 

drew 
From Santa Croce's veins ! " So 

joked the world. 

I add : Onofrio left one child behind, 
A daughter named Valeria, dowered 

with grace 
Abundantly of soul and body, doomed 
To life the shorter for her father's 

fate. 
By death of her, the Marquisate re- 
turned 
To that Orsini House from whence it 

came : 
Oriolo having pa^ssed as donative 
To Santa Croce from their ancestors. 

And no word more ? Bj' all means ! 
Would you know 

The authoritative answer, when folks 
urged 

" What made Aldobrandini, hound- 
like stanch. 

Hunt out of life a harmless simple- 
ton ? " 

The answer was — "Hatred implaca- 
ble. 

By reason they were rivals in their 
love." 

The Cardinal's desire was to a dame 

Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked 
with pride. 

The simpleton must ostentatiously 

Display a ring, the Cardinal's love- 
gift. 

Given to Onofrio as the latly's gage ; 

Which ring on finger, as he put forth 
hand 

To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal 

Saw and knew, gift and owner, old 
and voung ; 



PORPHYRIA' S LOVER. 



157 



Whereon a fury entered him — the 

fire 
He quenched with what could quench 

fire only — blood. 
Nay, more : " there want not who 

affirm to boot, 
The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, 
Feigned ignorance of who the wight 

might be 
That pressed too closely on him with 

a crowd. 
He struck the Cardinal a blow : and 

then. 
To put a face upon the incident, 
Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay 

court 
I' the Cardinal's ante-chamber. Mark 

and mend, 
Ye youth, by this examjDle how may 

greed 
Vainglorious operate in worldly 
' souls ! " 

So ends the chronicler, beginning 

witli 
** God's justice, tardy though it prove 

perchance, 
Rests never till it reach delinquency." 
Ay, or how otherwise had come to 

pass 
That Victor rules, this present year, 

in Rome ? 



PORPHYRTA'S LOVER. 



The rain set early in to-night. 
The sullen wind was soon awake, 

It tore the elm-tops down for spite. 
And did its worst to vex the lake, 

I listened with heart fit to break. 



When glided in Porphyria ; straight 
She shut die cold out and the storm, 
And kneeled, and made the cheerless 
grate 
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 
Which done, she rose, and from her 
form 



Withdrew the dripping cloak and 
shawl, 
And laid her soiled gloves by, un- 
tied 



Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 

And, last, she sat down by my side 
And called me. When no voice re- 
plied, 



She put my arm about her waist. 
And made her smooth white shoul- 
der bare. 
And all her yellow hair displaced. 
And, stooping, made my cheek lie 
there. 
And spread, o'er all, her yellow 
hair, — 



V. 

Murmuring how she loved me — she 
Too weak, for all her heart's en- 
deavor, 
To set its struggling passion free 
From pride, and vainer ties dis- 
sever. 
And give herself to me forever. 

VI. 

But passion sometimes would pre- 
vail, 
Nor could to-night's gay feast re- 
strain 
A sudden thought of one so pale 

For love of her, and all in vain : 
So, she was come through wind and 
rain. 



Be sure I looked up at her eyes 
Happy and proud : at last I knew 

Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise 
Made my heart swell, and still it 
grew 

While I debated what to do. 



That moment she was mine, mine, 
fair, 

Perfectly pure and good : I found 
A thing to do, and all her hair 

In one long yellow string I wound 
Three times her little throat around, 



And strangled her. No pain felt she j 
I am quite sure she felt no pain. 

As a shut bud that holds a bee, 
I warily oped her lids : again 

Laughed the blue eyes without a 
stain. 



irxs 



FILIPPO BALDINUCCl ON BURIAL. 



And I iintiglitened next the tress 
About lier neck ; her cheek once 
more 
Blushed bright beneath my burning 
kiss : 
I propped her head up as before. 
Only, this time my shoulder bore 



XI. 

Her head, which droops upon it still : 
The smiling rosy little head, 

So glad it has its utmost will. 
That all it scorned at once is fled. 

And 1, its love, am gained instead ! 

XII. 

Porphyria's love : she guessed not 
iiow 
Her darling one wish would be 
heard. 
And thus we sit together now. 
And all night long Ave have not 
stirred. 
And yet God has not said a word ! 



FILIPPO BALDIXUCCI ON THE 
PKIYILEGE OF BURIAL. 

A Reminiscence of a.d. 1676. 



No, boy, we must not (so began 
My Uncle— he's with God long 
since — 
A-petting me, the good old man !) 
AVe must not (and he seemed to 
wince. 
And lose that laugh whereto had 
grown 
His chuckle at my piece of news, 
How cleverly I ainunl my stone) 
I fear we must not pelt the Jews ! 



ri. 
"When I was young indeed, — ah, faith 
Was young and strong in Florence 
too ! 
We Christians never dreamed of 
scathe 
Because we cursed or kicked the 
crew. 



But now — well, well! The olive- 
crops 
Weighed double then, and Arno's 
pranks 
Would always spare religious shops 
Whenever he o'ertlowed his banks ! 



I'll tell you (and his eye regained 

Its twinkle) tell 3"ou something 
choice ! 
Something may help you keep un- 
stained 

Your honest zeal to stop the voice 
Of unl)eli«-f with stone-throw — spite 

Of laws, which modern fools enact, 
That we must suffer Jews in sight 

Go wholly unmolested ! Fact 1 



There was, then, in my youth, and yet 

Is, by San Frediano, just 
Below'the Blessed Olivet, 

A wayside ground wherein they 
thrust 
Their dead, — these Jews, — the more 
our shame ! 

Except that, so they will but die, 
We may perchance incur no blame 

In giving hogs a hoist to stye. 



There, anyhow, Jews stow away 

Their dead ; and, — such their inso- 
lence, — 
Slink at odd times to sing and pray 

As Christians do — all make- pre- 
tence ! — 
Which wickedness they perpetrate 

Because they think no Christians see 
They reckoned here, at any rate, 

Without their host : ha, ha, he, he ! 



For, what should join their plot of 
ground 
But a good Farmer's Christian field ? 
The Jews had hedged their corner 
round 
With bramble-bush to keep con- 
cealed 
Their doings : for the public road 
Ilan betwixt this their ground and 
that 
The FaruKu-'s, where he ploughed and 
sowed. 
Grew corn for barn and grapes for 
vat. 



FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURTAL. 



159 



So. properly to guard his store 

And gall the unbelievers too, 
He builds a shrine and, what is more, 

Prociires a painter whom I knew, 
One Buti (he's with God) to paint 

A holy picture there — no less 
Than Virgin Marj" free from taint 

Borne to the sky by angels : yes ! 



Which shrine he fixed, — who says 
him nay? — 
A-facing with its picture-side 
Not, as you'd think, the public way, 
But jiist where sought these hounds 
to hide 
Tlieir carrion from that very truth 
Of Mary's triumph : not a hound 
Could act his mummeries uncouth 
But Mary shamed the pack all 
round ! 

rx. 

Now, if it was aiu using, judge ! 

— To see the company arrive, 
Each Jew intent to end his trudge . 

And take his pleasure (though alive) 
"With all his Jewish kith and kin 

Below ground, have his venom out, 
Sharpen his wits for next day's sin. 

Curse Christians, and so home, no 
doubt ! 



"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds 

Mary, I warrant, soaring brave ! 
And in a trice, beneath the folds 

Of filthy garb which gowns each 
knave, 
Down drops it — there to hide grimace, 

Contortion of the mouth and nose 
At finding Mary in the place 

They'd keep for Pilate, I suppose ! 



XI. 



not 



At last, they will not brook 
they ! — 

Longer such outrage on their tribe : 
So, in some hole and corner, lay 

Their heads together — how to bribe 
The meritorious Farmer's self 

To straight undo his work, restore 
Their chance to meet, and muse on 
pelf — 

Pretending sorrow, as before ! 



Forthwith, a posse, if von please, 

Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That 
Almost go down upon their knees 

To get him lay the picture flat. 
The spokesman, eighty years of age. 

Gray as a badger, with a goat's 
— Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage 

Y\'ar with our Mary. Thus he 
dotes : — 

XIII. 

"Friends, grant a grace! How He- 
brews toil 
Through life in Florence — why re- 
late 
To those who lay the burden, spoil 
Our paths of peace ? We bear our 
fate. 
But when with life the long toil ends, 
AYhy must you — the expression 
craves 
Pardon, but truth compels me, 
friends ! — 
Why must you plague us in our 
graves ? 

XIV. 

" Thoughtlessly plague, I would be- 
lieve ! 

For how can you — the lords of ease 
By nurture, birthright — e'en conceive 

Our luxury to lie with trees 
And turf, — the cricket and the bird 

Left for our last companionship : 
No harsh deed, no unkindly word. 

No frowning brow nor scornful lij) ! 

XV. 

" Death's luxury, we now rehearse 
AYhile, living, through your streets 
we fare 
And take yoxxx hatred : nothing worse 
Have we, once dead and safe, to 
bear ! 
So we refresh our souls, fulfil 
Our works, our daily tasks ; and 
thus 
Gather vou grain — earth's harvest — 
still 
The wheat for you, the straw for us. 

XYI. 

" ' What flouting in a face, what harm. 

In just a lady borne from bier 
By boys' heads, wings for leg and 
arm ? ' 
You question. Friends, the harm 
is here — 



IGO 



FILIPPO BALDINUCCT ON BURIAL. 



That just when our last sigh is heaved, 
And we would fain thank God and 
you 

For lal>or done and peace achieved, 
Back comes the Past in full review ! 

XVII. 

" At sight of just that simple fiag, 

Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like 
From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor 
drag — 
Though fangless — forth, what needs 
must strike 
When stricken sore, though stroke be 
vain 
Against the mailed oppressor ! 
Give 
Play to our fancy that we gain 
Life's rights when once we cease to 
live ! 

XVIII. 

" Thus much to courtesy, to kind, 
To conscience ! Now to Florence 
folk ! 
There's core beneath this apple-rind, 
Beneath this white of egg there's 
yolk ! 
Beneath this prayer to courtesy, 
Kind, conscience — there's a sura to 
pouch ! 
How many ducats down will buy 
Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch! 

XIX. 

" Removal, not destruction, sirs ! 
Just turn your picture ! Let it 
front 
The public path ! Or memory errs, 

Or that same public path is wont 
To witness many a chance befall 
Of lust, theft, bloodshed — sins 
enough, 
Wherein our Hebrew part is small. 
Convert yourselves ! " — lie cut up 
rough. 

XX. 

Look you, how soon a service paid 

Religion yields the servant fruit ! 
A prompt reply our Farmer made 

So following : " Sirs, to grant your 
suit 
Involves much danger ! How? Trans- 
j^ose 

Our Lady ? Sto]) the chastisement. 
All for your good, herself bestows? 

What wonder if I grudge consent? 



XXI. 

— " Yet grant it : since, what cash I 
take 

Is so nuich saved from wicked use. 
We know you ! And, for Mary's 
sake, 

A hundred ducats shall induce 
Concession to your prayer. One day 

Suffices : Master Buti's brush 
Turns Mary round the other way. 

And deluges your side with slush. 

XXII. 

" Down with the ducats therefore ! " 
Dump, 
Dump, dump it falls, each counted 
piece. 
Hard gold. Then out of door they 
stump. 
These dogs, each brisk as with new 
lease 
Of life, I warrant, — glad he'll die 
Henceforward just as he may 
choose, 
Be buried and in clover lie ! 
Well said Esaias — " stiff-necked 
Jews ! " 

XXIII. 

Off posts without a minute's loss 

Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, 
And summons Bnti — ere its gloss 
Have time to fade from off the 
joke — 
To chop and change his work, undo 
The done side, make the side, now 
blank. 
Recipient of our Lady — who. 
Displaced thus, had these dogs to 
thank ! 

XXIV. 

Now, you're no boy I need instruct 

In technicalirics of Art ! 
My nephew's childhood sure has 
sucked 
Along with inother's-milk some part 
Of painter's-practice — learned, at 
least. 
How expeditiously is plied 
A work in fresco— never ceased 
When once begun — a day, each 
side. 

XXV. 

So, Buti — he's with God— begins : 
First covers up the shrine all round 

With hoarding ; then, as like as twins, 
Paints, t'other side the burial- 
ground, 



FILIPPO BALDINUCCl ON BURIAL. 



161 



New Mary, every point the same ; 

Next, sluices over, as agreed, 
The old; and last — but, spoil the 
game 

By telling you ? Not I, indeed ! 



"Well, ere the week was half at end, 

Out came the object of this zeal. 
This fine alacrity to spend 
Hard money for mere dead men's 
weal ! 
How think you? That old spokes- 
man Jew 
Was High Priest, and he had a 
wife 
As old, and she was dying too, 
And wished to end in peace her 
life! 

XXVII. 

And he must humor dying whims. 

And soothe her with the idle hope 
They'd say their prayers and sing 
their hymns 
As if her husband were the Pope ! 
And she did die — believing just 
This privilege was purchased ! 
Dead 
In comfort through her foolish trust ! 
** Stiff-necked ones," well Esaias 
said ! 



So, Sabbath morning, out of gate 

And on to way, what sees our arch 
Good Farmer ? " Why, they hoist their 
freight — 
The corpse — on shoulder, and so, 
march ! 
" Now for it, Buti ! " In the nick 
Of time 'tis pully-hauly, hence 
With hoarding ! O'er the wayside 
quick 
There's Mary plain in evidence ! 



And here's the convoy halting : right ! 
Oh, they are bent on howling psalms 
And growling prayers, when oppo- 
site ! 
And yet they glance, for all their 
qualms. 
Approve that promptitude of his. 
The ITarmer's — duly at his post 
To take due thanks from every phiz, 
Sour smirk — nay, surly smile 
almost ! 



Then earthward drops each brow 
again ; 

The solemn task's resumed ; they 
reach 
Their holy field — the unholy train : 

Enter its precinct, all and each. 
Wrapt somehow in their godless rites ; 

Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo 
They lift their faces ! What delights 

The mourners as they turn to go ? 



XXXI. 

Ha, ha, he, he ! On just the side 
They drew their purse-strings to 
make quit 
Of Mary, — Christ the Crucified 
Fronted them now — these biters 
bit! 
Never was such a hiss and snort, 
Such screwing nose and shooting 
lip ! 
Their purchase — honey in report — 
Proved gall and verjuice at first si^j ! 



XXXII. 

Out they break, on they bustle, where, 

A-top of wall, the Farmer waits 
With Buti : never fun so rave ! 

The Farmer has the best : he i^ates 
The rascal, as the old High Priest 

Takes on himself to sermonize — 
Nay, sneer " We Jews supposed, at 
least, 

Theft was a crime in Christian 
eyes ! " 

XXXIII. 

"Theft?" cries the Farmer, "Eat 
your words ! 

Show me what constitutes a breach 
Of faith in aught was said or heard ! 

I promised you in plainest speech 
I'd take the thing you count disgrace 

And put it here — and here 'tis put ! 
Did you suppose I'd leave the place 

Blank therefore, just your rage to 
glut? 

XXXIV. 

" I guess you dared not stipulate 
For such a damned impertinence ! 

So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate 
And in at Ghetto ! Haste you 
hence ! 



162 



FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 



As lonj? as I have honse and land, 
To spite you irreligious flia|»s 

Here shall the Crucitixioii stand — 
Unless you down with cash, per- 
haps !" 

XXXV, 

So snickered he and Buti both. 

The Jews said nothing, interchanged 
A glance or two, renewed their oath 

To keep ears stopped and hearts 
estranged 
Fi-om grace, for all our Church can do. 

Then off they scuttle : sullen jog 
Homewards, against our Church to 
brew 

Fresh mischief in their synagogue. 

XXXVI. 

But next day — see what happened, 
boy ! 
See why I bid you ha^e a care 
How you pelt Jews ! The knaves em- 
ploy 
Such methods of revenge, forbear 
No outrage on our faith, when free 
To wreak their malice ! Here they 
took 
So base a method — plague o' me 
H I record it in my Book ! 

XXXVII. 

For, next day, while the Farmer sat 

Laughing with Buti, in his shop. 
At their successful joke, — rat-tat, — 

Door opens, and tliey're like to drop 
Down to the floor as in there stalks 

A six-feet-high herculean-bnilt 
Young he-Jew with a heard thatl alks 

Descrijition. "Help, ere blood be 
spilt ! " 

xxxvni. 
— Screamed Buti : for he recognized 

Whom but the son, no less no more. 
Of that High Priest his work surprised 

So pleasantly the day before ! 
Son of the mother, then, whereof 

The bier he lent a shoulder to, 
And made the moans about, dared 
scoff 

At sober, Christian grief — the Jew ! 

XXXIX. 

*' Sirs, I salute you ! Never rise ! 

No apprehension ! " (Buti. white 
Antl trembling lik(^ a tub of size. 

Had tried to smuggle out of sight 



The picture's self — the thing in oils. 
You know, from which a fresco's 
dashed 
Which courage speeds while caution 
spoils) 
" Stay and be praised, sir, una- 
bashed ! 



XL. 

"Praised,— ay, and paid too: for I 
conae 
To buy that very work of yours. 
My poor abode, which boasts — well, 
some 
Few specimens of Art. secures 
Haply, a masterpiece indeed 

If I should find ray humble means 
Suffice the outlaj'. So, proceed ! 
Propose — ere prudence inter- 
venes ! " 



On Buti, cowering like a (>bild, 

These words descended from aloft, 
In tone so ominously mild, 

With smile terrifically soft 
To that degree — could Buti dare 

(Poor fellow) use his brains, think 
twice ? 
He asked, thus taken unaware, 

No more than just the proper price ! 

XLII. 

" Done ! " cries tlie monster. " I dis- 
Inirse 

Forthwith your moderate demand. 
Count on my custoui — if no worse 

Your future work be, understand, 
Than this I carry off ! No aid ! 

My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor 
tliews : 
The burden's easy, and we're made. 

Easy or hard, to bear — we Jews ! " 

XLIII. 

Crossing himself at such escape, 
Buti by turns the money eyes 
And, timidly, the stalwart shape 
Now moving doorvvards ; hut, more 
wise. 
The Farmer, — who, though dumb, 
this while 
Had watched advantage, — straight 
conceived 
A reason for that tone and smile 
So mild and soft! The Jew — be- 
lieved ! 



FILIPPO BALDTNUCCI ON BURIAL. 



163 



Mary in trinrapli borne to deck 
A Hebrew household ! Pictured 
where 
No one was used to bend the neck 

in i^raise or bow the knee in prajer ! 
Borne to that domicile by whom ? 
The son of the High Priest ! 
Tlirough what ? 
An insult done his mother's tomb ! 
Saul changed to Paul — the case 
came pat ! 



" Stay, dog-Jew . . . gentle sir, that 
"^is ! 
Resolve me ! Can it be, she 
crowned — 
Mary, by miracle — Oh bliss ! — 

My present to your burial-ground ? 
Certain, a ray of light has burst 
Your veil of darkness ! Had you 
else, 
Only for Mary's sake, unpursed 
So much hard money? Tell — oh, 
tell's ! " 

XLVI. 

Round — like a serpent that we took 
For worm and trod on — turns his 
bulk 
About the Jew. First dreadful look 

Sends Buti in a trice to skulk 
Out of sight somewhere, safe — alack ! 
But our good Farmer faith made 
bold : 
And firm (with Florence at his back) 
He stood, while gruff the gutturals 
rolled — 

XLVII. 

"Ay, sir, a miracle was Avorked, 

By quite another power, I trow, 
Than ever yet in canvas lurked. 

Or you would scarcely face me now ! 
A certain imiiulse did suggest 

A certain grasp with this right- 
hand, 
"Which probably had put to rest 

Our quarrel, —thus your throat once 
spanned ! 

XLVTII. 

"But T remembered me, subdued 
Tbat impulse, and yen face me still ! 

And soon a philosopliic mood 
Succeeding (hear it, if you will !) 



Has altogether changed my views 
Concerning Art. Blind prejudice ! 

Well may you Christians tax us Jews 
With scrupulosity too nice ! 

XLIX. 

" For, don't I see, — let's issue 
join ! — 

Whenever I'm allowed pollute 
(I — and my little bag of coin) 

Some Christian palace of repute, — 
Don't I see stuck up everywhere 

Abundant proof that cultured taste 
Has Beauty for its on 13^ care, 

And upon Truth no thought to 
waste ? 



*' * Jew, since it must be, take in 
pledge 

Of payment' — so a Cardinal 
Has sighed to me as if a wedge 

Entered his heart — ' this best of all 
My treasures ! ' Leda, Ganymede, 

Or Antiope : swan, eagle, ape 
(Or what's the beast of what's the 

breed), 
And Jupiter in every shape ! 



"Whereat if I presume to ask 
* But, Eminence, though Titian's 
whisk 
Of brush have well performed its task, 
How comes it these false godships 
frisk 
In presenc;e of — what yonder frame 

Pretends to image ? Surely, odd 
It seems, you let confront The Name 
Each beast the heathen called his 
god ! ' 

LII. 

" Benignant smiles me pity straight 

The Cardinal. ' 'Tis Truth, we 
prize ! 
Art's the sole question in debate ! 

These subjects are so many lies. 
We treat them with a proper scorn 

When we turn lies — called gods for- 
sooth — 
To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. 

Drawing and coloring are Truth. 

LIII. 

" ' Think you I honor lies so much 
As scruple to parade the charms 

Of Leda — Titian, every touch — 
Because the thing within her arms 



1G4 



SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. 



Means Jupiter vrlio had the praise 
And prayer of a benighted world? 

Benighted I too, if, in da3-s 
Of light, I kept the canvas furled ! ' 



lilV. 

" So ending, with some easy gibe. 

What power has logic ! I, at once, 
Acknowledged error in our tribe. 

So squeamish that, when friends 
ensconce 
A pretty picture in its niche 

To do"^ us honor, deck our graves, 
"We fret and fume and have an itch 

To strangle folk — ungrateful 
knaves ! 

LV. 

" No, sir ! Be sure that — what's its 
style. 
Your 'picture V — shall possess un- 
grudged 
A place among my rank and file 

Of Ledas and what not — be judged 
Just as a picture ! — and (because 

I fear me uuicli I scarce have bought 
A Titian) Master Buti's flaws 
Found there, will have the laugh 
flaws ought ! " 



So, with a scowl, it darkens door — 

This bulk — no longer ! Buti makes 
Prompt glad re-entry; there's a score 
Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes 
From what must needs have been a 
trance, 
Or he had struck (he swears) to 
grouiul 
The bold bad mouth that dared ad- 
vance 
Such cloctrine the reverse of sound ! 



Lvir. 
Was magic here ? Most like ! For, 
since, 
Somehow our city's faith grows still 
More and more lukewarm, and our 
Prince 
Or loses heart or wants the will 
To check increase of cold. 'Tis 
" Live 
And let live ! Languidly repress 
The Dissident ! In short, — contrive 
Christians nmst bear with Jews: no 
less ! " 



LViri. 
The end seems, any Israelite 

Wants any picture, — pishes, poohs, 
Purchases, hangs it full in sight 

In any chamber he ma3^ choose ! 
In Christ's crown, one more thorn we 
rue ! 
In Mary's bosom, one more sword ! 
No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew ! 
O Lord, how long? How long, O 
Lord ? 



SOLILOQUY OF THE SPAN- 
ISH CLOISTER. 



I. 
Gr-k-r — there go, my heart's abhor- 
rence ! 
Water your damned flower-pots, 
do ! 
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, 
God's blood, would not mine kill 
you ! 
What ? your mj-rtle-bush wants trim- 
ming? 
Oh, that rose has prior claims — 
Needs its leaden vase tilled brim- 
ming? 
Hell dr^' you up with its flames ! 



At the meal we sit together : 

Salve tibi ! I must hear 
Wise talk of the kind of weather. 

Sort of season, time of year : 
Not a plenteous cork-cvop : scarcely 

Dare ice hope oak-f/alls, I doubt : 
What's the Latin name for "parsley" f 

What's the Greek name for Swine's 
Snout ? 



Whew ! We'll have our platter bur- 
nished, 

Laid with care on our own shelf ! 
Witli a tire-new spoon we're fur- 
nished. 

And a goblet for ourself. 
Rinsed like something sacrificial 

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps — 
Marked with L. for our initial ! 

(He-he I There his lily snaps !) 



THE HERETIC -S TRAGEDY. 



165 



IV. 

Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dc- 
lores 

Squats outside the Convent bank 
AVith Sanohicha, telling stories, 

Steeping tresses in the tank, 
Blue-biack, lustrous, thick like horse- 
liairs. 

— Can't I see his dead eye glow. 
Bright as "twere a Bartiary corsair's ? 

(That is, if he'd let it sho'iv !) 



TThen he finishes refection. 

Knife and fork he never lava 
Cross-wise, to tny recollection. 

As do I, in Jesus praise. 
I the Trinity illustrate. 

Drinking watered orange-pulp — 
In three sips the Arian frustrate ; 

While he drains his at one gulp. 



Oh. those melons ? If he's able 

We're to have a feast ! so nice ! 
One goes to the Abbot's table. 

All of us get each a slice. 
How go on your flowers? None 
doul de ? 

Xot one fruit-sort can you spy ? 
Strange ! —And I, too, at such trouble 

Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! 



There's a great text in Galatians, 

Once you trip on it, entails 
Twenty-nine distinct damnations. 

One sure, if another fails : 
If I trip him just a-dying. 

Sure of heaven as sure can be. 
Spin him round and send liim flving 

Off to hell, a Manichee '? 



Or. my scrofulous French novel 

On gray paper with blunt type ! 
Simply glance at it, yott grovel 

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe : 
If I double down its pages 

At the wofnl sixteenth print. 
When he gathers his greengages. 

Ope a sieve and slip it in't ? 



Or, there's Satan I — one might ven- 
ture 
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 



Suoii a flaw in the indenture 
As he'd miss till, past retrieve. 

Blasted lay that rose-acacia 
We're so proud of ! H>j, Zy, Mine . . 

'St, there's Vespers I Pkna </ratid 
Ave, Virrjo .' Gr-r-r — you swine ! 



THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. 

A MIDDLE-AGE rVTERLUDE. 

BOSA arCXDI ; sec, FCXCITE tie FLOEtBrS. 
A CO>.-CElT OF JLASTER GTSBEECHT, 
CA:SOX-r.EGXrLAB OF SAIXT JODOCrS-BT- 
THE-BAB, TPBES CITV. CaNTTQCE, T'jr- 
giliux. AXB HATH OFTEX BEEX SCXG 
AT HOCK- TIDE AXD FESTIVALS. GAVI- 

srs EHA2C, Jesiides. 

(Tt would Beem to be a slimpse from the 
bummg of Jacques du Bourg-Molay. at 
Paris, A.D. 1314 ; as distorted by the refrac- 
tion from Flemish brain to brain, during the 
course of a couple of centuries.) 



PKEADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEO- 
DAET. 

The Lord, we look to once for all. 
Is the Ix)rd we should look at, all 
at once : 
He knows not to varv, saith Saint 
Paul, 
Nor the shadow of turning, for the 
nonce. 
See him no other than as he is ! 
Give both the infinitudes their 
due — 
Infinite mercy, but, I wis. 
As infinite a justice too, 

[Oifjnn: plagal-cadence. 
As infinite a justice too. 



IL 



OXE SrSGETH. 

John. Master of the Temple of God, 

Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, 
What he bought of Emperor AJda- 
brod. 
He sold it to Sultan Saladin : 
Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzz- 
ing there. 
Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' 
hive, 



166 



THE nKRFTIC'S TRAGEDY. 



And dipt of his winj^s in Paris square, 
They brin^ him now to be biirued 
alive. 
[And wanteth there (/race of Ivte 
or clavicithern, ye shall say to 
confirm him viho singeth — 
We bring John now to be burned 
alive. 

III. 
In the midst is a goodly gallows built ; 
'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is 
stuck ; 
But first they set divers tumbrils 
a-tilt, 
Make a trench all round with the 
city muck ; 
Inside tl'iey pile log upon log, good 
store ; 
Fagots not few, blocks great and 
small, 
Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no 
more, — 
For they mean he should roast in 
the sight of all. 

CHOitrs. 
"We mean he should roast in the 
sight of all. 

IV. 

Good sappy bavins that kindle forth- 
with"; 
Billets That blaze substantial and 
slow ; 
Pine-stum]) split deftly, dry as pith ; 
Larch-heart that chars to a chalk- 
white glow : 
Then up they hoist me John in a chafe. 
Sling him fast like a hog to scorch, 
Spit in his face, Then leap back safe, 
Sing " Laudes," and bid clap-to the 
torch. 

CHORUS. 

Lar(S Deo — who bids clai>to the 
torch. 



John of the Temple, whose fame so 
bragged, 
Is burning alive in Paris square ! 
How can he curse, if his mouth is 
gagged ? 
Or wriggle his neck, with a collar 
there ? 
Or heave his chest, while a band goes 
round ? 
Or threat with his fist, since his 
arms are spliced ? 



Or kick with his feet, now his legs are 
bound ? 

— Thinks John, I will call upon 

Jesus Christ. 

[Here one crosseih himself. 

VI. 

Jesus Christ — John had bought and 
sold, 
Jesus Christ — John had eaten and 
drunk ; 
To him, the Flesh meant silver and 
gold. 
(Salra reverent id.) 
Now it was, " Saviour, bountiful lamb, 
I have roasted thee Turks, though 
men roast me ! 
See thy servant, the plight wherein I 
am ! 
Art thou a saviour? Save thou 
me ! " 

CHORUS. 

'Tis John the mocker cries, "Save 
thou me ! " 

VII. 

Who maketh God's menace an idle 
Mord ? 

— Saith, it no more means what it 

proclaims, 
Than a damsel's threat to her wanton 
bird? — 
For she too prattles of ugly names. 
— Saith, he knoweth but one thing, — 
what he knows? 
That God is good and the rest is 
breath ; 
Why else is the same styled Sharon's 
rose ? 
Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith, 

CHORUS. 

Oh, John shall j'et find a rose, ho 
saith. 

VIII. 

Alack, there be roses and rosos, John ! 
Some honeyed of taste like your 
Icman's tongue : 
Some, bitter ; for why ? (roast gavly 
on!) 
Their tree struck root in devil's 
dung. 
When Paul once reasoned of righteous- 
ness 
And of temperance and of judgment 
to come, 



HOLY-CROSS DAY. 



167 



Good Felix trembled, he could no less : 
John, snickering, crooked his 
wicked thumb. 

CHORUS. 

What Cometh to John of the wicked 
thumb ? 

IX. 

Ha, ha ! John plucketh now at his 
rose 
To rid himself of a sorrow at heart ! 
Lo, — petal on petal, tierce rays un- 
close ; 
Anther on anther, sharp spikes out- 
start ; 
And with blood for dew, the bosom 
boils ; 
And a gust of sulphur is all its smell ; 
And lo, he is horribly in the toils 
Of a coal-black giant flower of hell ! 

CHOKUS. 

What maketh heaven. That maketli 
hell. 

X. 

So, as John called now, through the 
fire amain. 
On the Name, he had cursed with, 
all his life — 
To the Person, he bought and sold 
again — 
For the Face, with his daily buffets 
rife — 
Feature by feature It took its place ; 
And his voice, like a mad dog'« 
choking bark. 
At the steady whole of the Judge's 
face — 
Died. Forth John's soul flared into 
the dark. 

SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. 

God help all poor souls lost in the 
dark ! 



HOLY-CROSS DAY. 

ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCED 
TO ATTEND AN ANNUAL CHRIS- 
TIAN SERMON IN ROME. 

[" Now was come about Holy-Cross Daj', 
and now must my lord preach his first ser 
mon to the Jews : as it was of old cared for 
m the merciful bowels of the Church, that, 



so to speak, a crumb, at least, from her con- 
spicuous table here in Rome, should bo, 
though but once yearly, cast to the famish- 
ing dogs, under-trampled and bespitten-upon 
beneath the feet of the guests. And a mov- 
ing sight in truth, this, of so many of the 
besotted blind restif and ready-to-perisli He- 
brews! now maternally brought — nay (for 
He saith, ' Compel them to come in '), haled, 
as it were, by the head and hair, and against 
their obstinate hearts, to partake of the 
heavenly grace. What awakening, what 
strivmg with tears, what working of a yeasty 
conscience! Nor was my lord wanting to 
himself on so apt an occasion ; witness the 
abundance of conversions which did inconti- 
nently reward him : though not to my lord 
be altogether the glory." — Diary by the 
Bifhop'ii Secretary, 16U0.J 

What the Jews really said, on thus being 
driven to church, was rather to this effect ; — 



Fee, faw. fum ! bubble and squeak ! 
Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the 

week. 
Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, 
Stinking and savory, smug and gruff, 
Take the church-road, for the bell's 

due chime 
Gives us the summons — 'tis sermon- 
time ! 

II. 

Boh, here's Barnabas ! Job, that's 
you ? 

Up stumps Solomon — bustling too ? 

Shame, man ! greedy beyond your 
years 

To handsel the bishop's shaving- 
shears ? 

Fair play's a jewel ! Leave friends 
in the lurch? 

Stand on a line ere you start for the 
church ! 

Ill 

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, 
Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, 
Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, 
Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve. 
Hist ! square shoulders, settle your 

thumbs 
And buzz for the bishop— here he 

comes. 

TV. 

Bow, wow, wow — a bone for the 

dog ! 
I liken liis Grace to an acorned hog. 



168 



HOLY-CROSS DAY. 



What, a boy at his side, with the 
bloom of a lass, 

To help and handle my lord's hour- 
glass ! 

Didst ever behold so lithe a chine ? 

His cheek hath laps like a fresh- 
singed swine. 



Aaron's asleep — shove hip to haunch, 
Or somebody deal him a dig in the 

paunch ! 
Look at the purse with the tassel and 

knob, 
And the gown with the angel and 

thingumbob ! 
What's he at, quotha? reading his 

text ! 
Now j'ou've his curtsey — and what 

comes next ? 



See to our converts — you doomed 

black dozen — 
No stealing away — nor cog nor 

cozen ! 
You five, that were thieves, deserve 

it fairly ; 
You seven, that were beggars, will 

live less sparely ; 
You took your turn and dipped in the 

hat," 
Got fortune — and fortune gets you; 

mind that ! 

vir. 

Give your first groan — compunction's 
at work ; 

And soft ! from a Jew you mount to 
a Turk. 

Lo, Micah, — the selfsame beard on 
chin 

He was four times already converted 
in ! 

Here's a knife, clip quick — it's a sign 
of grace — 

Or he ruins us all with his hanging- 
face. 

VIIT. 

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at ? 
I know a point where his text falls 

pat. 
I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just 

now 
Went to my heart and made me vow 
To meddle no more with the worst of 

trades : 
Let somebody else play his serenades 1 



Groan all together now, whee — hee 

— hee ! 
It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is 

me ! 
It began, when a herd of us, picked 

and placed. 
Were sjuirred through the Corso, 

stripped to the waist ; 
Jew brutes, with sweat and blood 

well sjient 
To usher in worthily Christian Lent. 



It grew, when the hangman entered 
our bounds. 

Yelled, pricked us out to his church 
like hounds : 

It got to a pitch, when the hand in- 
deed 

Which gutted ray purse, would throt- 
tle my creed : 

And it overflows, when, to even the 
odd, 

Men I helped to their sins, help me to 
their God. 



But now, while the scapegoats leave 

our flock, 
And the rest sit silent and count the 

clock. 
Since forced to muse the appointed 

time 
On these precious facts and truths 
•• sublime, — 
Let us fitly employ it, under our 

breath. 
In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death. 



For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he 

died, 
Called sons and sons' sons to his side, 
And spoke, "This world has been 

harsh and strange ; 
Something is wrong : there needeth a 

change. 
But wliat, or where? at the last or 

first ? 
In one point only we sinned, at worst. 

xiir. 
" The Lord will have mercy on Jacob 

yet. 
And again in his border see Israel 

set. 



AMPHIBIAN. 



169 



"When Judali beliolds Jerusalem, 

The stranger-seed shall be joined to 
them : 

To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles 
cleave, 

So the Prophet saith and his sons be- 
lieve. 

XIV. 

"Ay, the children of the chosen race 

Shall carry and bring them to their 
place : 

In the land of the Lord shall lead the 
same, 

Bondsmen and handmaids. Who 
shall blame, 

"When the slaves enslave, the op- 
pressed ones o'er 

The oppressor triumph for evermore ! 

XV. 

*' God spoke, and gave us the word to 

keep : 
Bade never fold the hands nor sleep 
'Mid a faithless world, — at watch and 

ward. 
Till Christ at the end relieve our 

guard. 
By his servant Moses the watch was 

set : 
Though near upon cock-crow, we keep 

it yet. 

XVI. 

" Thou ! if thou wast he, who at mid- 
watch came. 

By the starlight, naming a dubious 
name ! 

And if, too heavy with sleep — too 
rash 

"With fear — O thou, if that martyr- 
gash 

Fell on thee coming to take thine own, 

And we gave the 'Cross, when we 
owed the Throne — 



"Thou art the Judge. "We are 

bruised thus. 
But, the Judgment over, join sides 

with us ! 
Thine too is the cause ! and not more 

thine 
Than ours, is the work of these dogs 

and swine, 
"Whose life laughs through and spits 

at their creed, 
Who maintain thee in word, and defy 

thee in deed ! 



XVIII. 

"We withstood Christ then? Be 

mindful how 
At least we withstand Barabbas now ! 
Was our outrage sore ? But the worst 

M^e spared, 
To have called these —Christians, had 

we dared ! 
Let defiance to them pay mistrust of 

thee, 
And Rome make amends for Calvary ! 

XIX. 

" By the torture, prolonged from age 
to age. 

By the infamy, Israel's heritage, 

By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's 
disgrace, 

By the badge of shame, by the felon's 
place. 

By the branding-tool, the bloody 
whip. 

And the summons to Christian fellow- 
ship, — 

XX. 

" We boast our proof that at least the 

Jew 
Would wrest Christ's name from the 

Devil's crew. 
Thy face took never so deep a shade 
But w'e f ught them in it, God our 

aid ! 
A trophy to bear, as we march, thy 

band 
South, East, and on to the Pleasant 

Land ! " 
\_The late Pope abolished this had 

business of the sermon. — R. B.] 



AMPHIBIAN. 



The fancy I had to-day. 
Fancy which turned" a fear ! 

I swam far out in the bay. 
Since waves laughed warm and 
clear. 



I lay and looked at the sun, 
The noon-sun looked at me : 

Between us two, no one 
Live creature, that I could see. 



170 



AMPHIBIAN. 



iir. 


XII. 


Yes ! There came floating by 
Me, who lay floating too, 

Such a strange butterfly ! 
Creature as dear as new : 


From worldly noise and dust. 
In the sphere which overbrims 

With passion and thought, — why, 
just 
Unable to fly, one swims ! 


IV. 

Because the raembraned wings 
So wonderful, so wide, 

So sun-suffused, were things 
Like soul and naught beside. 


XIII. 

By passion and thought upborne, 
One smiles to one's self — "They 
fare 


V. 

A handbreadth over head ! 

All of tlie sea my own, 
It owned the sky instead ; 

Both of us were alone. 

vr. 
I never shall join its flight, 

For naught buoys flesh in air. 
If it touch the sea — gooil-night ! 

Death sure and swift waits there. 


Scarce better, they need not scorn 
Our sea, who live in the air ! " 

XIV. 

Emancipate through passion 
And thought, with s<!a for sky. 

We substitute, in a fashion, 
For heaven — poetry : 

XV. 


VII. 

Can the insect feel the better 
For watching the uncouth play 

Of limbs that slip the fetter, 
Pretend as they were not clay ? 


Which sea, to all intent, 
Gives flesh such noon-disport 

As a finer element 
Affords the spirit-sort. 

XVI. 


viir. 
Undoubtedly I rejoice 

That the air comports so well 
"With a creature which had the choice 

Of the land once. Who can tell ? 


Whatever they are, we seem : 
Imagine the thing they know ; 

All deeds they <lo, we dream ; 
Can heaven be else but so ? 




XVII. 


IX. 

"What if a certain soul 

Which early slipped its sheath. 
And has for its home the whole 

Of heaven, thus look beneath, 


And meantime, yonder streak 
Meets the horizon's verge ; 

That is the land, to seek 
If we tire or dread the surge ; 




XVIII. 


X. 

Thus watch one who, in the world, 
Both lives and likes life's way. 

Nor wishes the wings unfurled 
That sleep in the worm, they say ? 


Land the solid and safe — 
To welcome again (confess 1) 

When, high and dry, we chafe 
The body, and don the dress. 


XI. 


XTX. 


But sometimes when the weatlier 
Is blue, and warm waves tempt 

To free one's s(?lf of t(>ther, 
And try a life exempt 


Does she look, pity, wonder 
At one who mimics flight. 

Swims — heaven above, sea under, 
Yet always earth in sight ? 



ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER 



171 



ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. 

I. 

No protesting, dearest ! 
Hardly kisses even ! 
Don't we both know how it ends ? 
How the greenest leaf turns searest ? 
Bluest outbreak — blankest heaven ? 
Lovers — friends ? 



You would build a mansion, 
I would weave a bower 
— Want the heart for enterprise. 
"Walls admit of no expansion : 
Trellis- work may haply tiower 
Twice the size. 



What makes glad Life's Winter? 
Nev.' buds, old blooms after. 
Sad the sighing " How suspect 
Beams would ere mid-autumu splin- 
ter, 
Eooftree scarce support a rafter, 
Walls lie %\Tecked ? " 



You are young, my princess ! 
I am hardly older : 
Yet — I steal a glance behind ! 
Dare I tell you what convinces 
Timid me that vou, if bolder, 
Bold — are blind? 



Where we plan our dwelling 
Glooms a graveyard surely ! 
Headstone, footstone moss may 
drape, — 
Name, date, violets hide from spell- 
ing, — 
But, though corpses rot obscurely, 
Ghosts escape. 



Ghosts ! O breathing Beauty, 
Give my frank word pardon ! 
What if I — somehow, some- 
where — 
Pledged my soul to endless duty 
Many a time and oft ? Be hard on 
Love — laid there ? 



Xay, blame grief that's fickle, 
Time that proves a traitor. 
Chance, change, all that purpose 
warps, — 
Death who spares to thrust the sickle, 
Which laid Love low, through flow- 
ers which later 
Shroud the corpse ! 



And you, my winsome lady. 
Whisper me with like frankness ! 
Lies nothing buried long ago ? 
Are yon — which shimmer mid what's 
" shady 
Where moss and violet run to rank- 
ness — 
Tombs, or no ? 

IX. 

Who taxes you with murder ? 
My hands are clean — or nearly ! 
Love being mortal ueeds must 
pass. 
Repentance ? Nothing were absurder. 
Enough : we felt Love's loss se- 
verely ; 
Though now — alas ! 



Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, 
Only Love's ghost plays truant, 
And warns us have in wholesome 
awe 
Durable raansionry: that's wherefore 
I weave but treliis-work, pursuant 
— Life, to law. 



The solid, not the fragile. 
Tempts rain and hail and thunder. 
If bower stand firm at autumn's 
close. 
Beyond my hope, — why, boughs were 
agile ; 
If bower fall fiat, we scarce need 
wonder 
Wreathing — rose ! 



So. truce to the protesting, 
So. muffled be the kisses ! 

For, would we but avow the truth, 
Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! 
Ask else Penelope, Ulysses — 
Old in youth ! 



172 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 



For why sliould j:jhosts feel angered? 
Let ail tlieir interference 

Be faint niaivh-nausic in the air ! 
*' Up ! Join the rear of us the van- 
guard ! 
Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, 
Laggard pair ! " 



XIV. 

The \N'hile you clasp me closer, 
The while I press you deei')er, 
As safe we chuckle, — under 
lireath, 
Yet all the slyer, the jocoser, — 

" So, life can hoastits day, like leaiv 
year, 
Stolen from death ! " 



Ah rae — the sudden terror ! 
Hence quick — avaunt, avoid me, 
You cheat, the ghostly tlesh-dis- 
guised ! 
Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange 
error ! 
So, 'twas Death's self that clipped 
and coyed n)e. 
Loved — and lied ! 



Ay, dead loves are the potent ! 
Like any cloud they used you, 
Mere semblance you, but sub- 
stance they ! 
Build we no mansion, weave we no 
tent ! 
Mere tiesh — their spirit interfused 
you ! 
Hence, I say ! 



All theirs, none youi-s the glamour ! 
Theirs each low word that won 
me, 
Soft look that found me Love's, 
and left 
"What else but you — the tears and 
clamor 
Tliat's all your very own ! Uiidoue 
me — 
Ghost-bereft I 



JA.MES LEE'S WIFE. 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE SPEAKS AT 
THE WINDOW. 



Ah, Love, but a day, 

And the world has changed ! 
The sun's away, 

And the bird estranged ; 
The wind has droi»|)ed. 

And the skj''s deranged : 
Summer has stopped. 

II. 
Look in my eyes ! 

Wilt thou change too ? 
Should I fear surprise? 

Shnll I tind aught new 
In the old and dear, 

111 tiie good and true, 
With the changing year ? 

III. 
Thou art a man, 

But I am thy love. 
For the lake, its swan ; 

For the dell, its dove ; 
And for thee — (oh, haste !) 

^le to bend abf)ve, 
Me, to hokl embraced. 



IT. 

BY THE FIRESIDE. 



Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, 

Oak and pine? 
Oh. for the ills half-understood, 

Tin* dim dead woe 

Ijong ago 
Befallen this bitter coast of France ! 
W^ell, poor sailors took their chance ; 

I take mine. 

II. 

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot 

O'er the sea ; 
Do sailors eye the casement — mute 

Drenched and stark, 

From their bark — 



JAMES LEE S WIFE 



173 



And envy, ^ash their teeth for hate 
O' the warm safe house ami happy 
freisht 
— Thee^andme? 



God help you, sailors, at your need ! 

Spare the eurs» ! 
For some shijis, safe in port indeed, 

Kot and rust. 

Run to dust. 
All through worms i' the wood, which 

crept. 
Gnawed our hearts out while we 
slept : 

That is worse. 



IV 

Who lived here before us two ? 

Old-world pairs. 
Diil a woman ever — would I knew ! — 

Watch the man 

With whom be^n 
Love's voyag:e full-sail, — (now, gnash 

your teeth ! ) 
When planks start, open hell beneath 

Unawares? 



m. 



IN 



'RWAT. 



The swallow has set her six young on 

the rail. 
And looks seaward : 
The waters in stripes like a snake, 

olive-pale 
To the leeward, — 
On the weather-side, black, spotted 

white with the wind. 
'• Good fortune departs, and disaster's 

behind," — 
Hark, the wind with its wants and its 

infinite wail! 



n. 



Xo glint of the gold. Summer sent for 

her sake : 
How the vines writhe in rows, each 

impaled on its stake ! 
My heart shrivels up and my spirit 

shrinks curled. 

m 
Yet here are we two ; we have love, 
house enouffh. 
W^ith the field there. 
This house of four rooms, that field 
red and rough. 
Though it yield there. 
For the rabbit that robs, scarce a 

blade or a lient : 
If a magpie alight now, it seems an 

event ; 
And they both will be gone at Xovem- 
b^s rebufE. 



But why mnst cold spread? bat 

wherefore bring change 
To the spirit, 
God meant should mate his with an 

infinite range. 
And inherit 
His i)ower to put life in the darkness 

and cold ? 
O, live and love worthily, bear and 

be bold ! 
Whom Summer made friends of, let 

Winter estrange ! 



IV. 
ALOXG THE BEACH. 



I WFLi. be quiet and talk with you. 
And reason why you are wrong. 

You wanted my loVe — is that much 
true? 

And so I did love, so I do : 
What has come of it all along ? 



Our fig-tree, that leaned for the salt- 
ness, has furled 
Her five fingers. 
Each leaf like a hand opened wide to I TiU God's a -glow, to the 
the world eyes. 

Where there lingers I In what was mere earth before 



I took you — how could I otherwise ? 

For a world to me, and more : 
For all. love greatens and glorifi«^ 

mill ^._i-, _ _i ^_ ^1. _ iQY-jjjg 



174 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 



Yes, earth — yes, mere ignoble earth ! 

Now do I misstate, mistake ? 
Do I wrong your weakness and call 

it worth ? 
Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, 

Seal my sense up for your sake ? 



O Love, Love, no, Love ! not so, in- 
deed 
You were just Aveak earth, I knew : 
With much in you waste, with many 

a weed. 
And plenty of passions run to seed, 
But a little good grain too. 



And such as you were, I took you for 
mine : 
Did not you find me yours. 
To watch the olive and wait the 

vine, 
And wonder when rivers of oil and 
wine 
\yould flow, as the Book assures ? 



Well, and if none of these good things 
came, 
What did the failure prove ? 
The man was my whole world, all 

the same, 
With his flowers to praise or his 
weeds to blame, 
And, either or both, to love. 



Yet this turns now to a fault — there ! 
there ! 
That I do love, watch too long, 
And wait too well, and weary and 

wear ; 
And 'tis all an old story, and my de- 
spair 
Fit subject for some new song : 



" How the light, light love, he has 

wings to fly 
At suspicion of a bond : 
My wisdom lias bidden your pleasure 

good-by, 



Which will turn up next in a laughing 

And whv should you look be- 
yond?" 



V. 



OX THE CLIFF. 



I LKANED on the turf, 

I looked at a rock 

Left drj' by the suif ; 

For the turf, to call it grass were to 

mock : 
Dead to the roots, so deep was done 
The work of the summer sun. 

II. 
And the rock lay flat 
As an anvil's face : 
No iron like that ! 
Baked dry ; of a weed, of a shell, no 

trace : 
Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, 
Death's altar by the lone shore. 



On the turf, sprang gay 

With his films of blue, 

No cricket, I'll say. 

But a warhorse, barded and chan- 

froned too, 
The gift of a quixote-mage to his 

knight. 
Real fairy, with wings all right. 



On the rock, they scorch 

Like a drop of fire 

From a brandished torch. 

Fall two red fans of a butterfly : 

No turf, no rock, — in their ugly stead. 

See, wonderful blue and red ' 

V. 

Is it not so 

With the minds of men ? 

The level and low. 

The burnt and bare, in themselves ; 

but then 
With such a blue and red grace, not 

theirs. 
Love settling unawares ! 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 



175 



VI. 

READIXa A BOOK, UXDER THE 
CLIFF. 



"Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be ap- 
peased or no ? 
Which needs the other's office, thou 
or I? 
Dost \Yant to be disburthened of a 
woe, 
And can, in truth, my voice untie 
Its links, and let it go ? 



"Art thou a dumb, WTonged thing 
that would be righted, 
Intrusting thus thy cause to me ? 
Forbear ! 
No tongue can mend such pleadings ; 
faith, requited 
With falsehood, — love, at last aware 
Of scorn, — hopes, early blighted, — 



III. 
"We have them ; but I know not any 
tone 
So lit as thine to falter forth a sor- 
row : 
Dost think men would go mad with- 
out a moan. 
If they knew any way to borrow 
A pathos like thy own ? 



IV. 

" Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the 
sighs ? The one 
So long escaping from lips starved 
and blue, 
That lasts while on her pallet-bed the 
nun 
Stretches her length ; her foot 
comes through 
The straw she shivers on ; 



" You had not thought she was so 
tall : and spent, 
Her shrunk lids open, her lean fin- 
gers shut 
Close, close, their sharp and livid nails 
indent 
The clammy palm ; then all is 
mute : 
That way, the spirit went. 



" Or wouldst thou rather that I un- 
derstand 
Thy will to help me ? — like the dog 
I found 
Once, pacing sad this solitary strand, 
Who would not take my food, poor 
hound, 
But whined, and licked mv hand." 



All this, and more, comes from some 
5'oung man's pride 
Of power to see, — in failure and 
mistake, 
Relinquishment, disgrace, on every 
side, — 
Mereh^ examples for his sake, 
Helps to his path untried : 

VIII. 

Instances he must — simply recog- 
nize ? 
Oh, more than so ! — must, with a 
learner's zeal. 
Make doubly prominent, twice em- 
phasize, 
By added touches that reveal 
The god in babe's disguise. 



Oh, he knows what defeat means, 
and the rest ! 
Himself the undefeated that shall 
be : 
Failure, disgrace, he flings them you 
to test, — 
His triurajih, in eternity 
Too plainly manifest ! 

X. 

Whence, judge if he learn forthwith 
what the wind 
Means in its moaning — by the 
happy prompt 
Instinctive waj' of youth, I mean ; 
for kind 
Calm years, exacting their accompt 
Of pain, mature the mind : 



XI. 

And some midsummer morning, at 
the lull 
Just about daybreak, as he looks 
across 

A sparkling foreign country, wonder- 
ful 



176 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 



To the sea's edge for gloom and 
gloss, 
Next minute must annul, — 



Then, when the wind begins among 
the vines, 
So low, so low, what shall it say 
hut this ? 
" Here is the change beginning, here 
the lines 
Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss 
The limit time assigns." 



XIII. 

Nothing can be as it has been be- 
fore ; 
Better, so call it, only not the same. 
To draw one beauty into our hearts' 
core. 
And keep it changeless ! such our 
claiu) ; 
So answered, — Never more ! 



XIV. 

Simple ? Why this is the old woe o' 
the world ; 
Tune, to whose rise and fall we 
live and die. 
Rise with ir, then ! Rejoice that man 
is hurled 
From c-hange to change unceas- 
ingly, 
His soul's wings never furled ! 



XV. 

That's a new question ; still replies 
the fact, 
Nothing endures : the wind moans, 
saying so ; 
"We moan in acquiescence : there's 
life's pact, 
Perhaps probation — do /know ? 
God does : endure his act ! 



XVI. 

Only, for man, how bitter not to 
grave 
On his soul's hands' palms one fair 
good wise thing 
Just as he graspfnl it ! For himself, 
death's wave ; 
AVhib^ time first washes — ah, the 
sting! — 
O'er all he'd sink to save. 



VII. 

AMOXG THE ROCKS. 



Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown 
old earth. 
This autumn morning ! How he 
sets his bones 

To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out 
knees and feet 

For the ripple to run over in its 
mirth ; 
Listening the while, where on the 
heap of stones 

The white breast of the sea-lark twit- 
ters sweet. 



n. 

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, 

true ; 
Such is life's trial, as old earth 

smiles and knows. 
If you loved only what were worth 

your love, 
Love "were clear gain, and wholly 

well for you : 
Make the low nature better by your 

throes ! 
Give eartli yourself, go up for gain 

above I 



VIII. 

BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD. 

I. 

"As like as a Hand to another 

Hand ! " 

Whoever said that foolish thing, 

Could not have studied to understand 

The counsels of God in fashioning. 
Out of the infinite love of his heart, 
This Hand, whose beauty I praise, 

ajiart 
From the world of wonder left to 

praise. 
If I tried to learn the other ways 
Of love, in its skill, or love, in its 
power 
" As like as a Hand to another 

Hand :" 
Who said tliat, never took his stand. 
Found and followed, like me, an hour, 



JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 



Ill 



The beauty in tliis, — how free, how 

fine 
To fear, almost, — of the limit-liue ! 
As I looked at this, aud learned and 
drew, 
Drew and learned, and looked 
again, 
While fast the happy minutes flew, 
Its l>eauty mounted into my brain, 
And a fancy seized lue : I was fain 
To efface my work, begin anew, 
Kiss what l>efore I only drew ; 
Ay, laying the red chalk 'twixt my 
lips, 
With soul to help if the mere lips 

failed, 
I kissed all right where the draw- 
ing ailed, 
Kissed fast the grace that somehow 

slips 
Still from one's soulless finger-tips. 

II. 
'Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing. 
From Hand live once, dead long 
ago: 
Princess-like it wears the ring 

To fancy's eye. by which we know 
That here' at length a master found 
His match, a proud lone soul its 
mate. 
As soaring genius sank to gi'ound 

Aud pencil could not emulate 
The beauty in this, — how free, how 

fine 
To fear almost ! — of the limit-line. 
Ijong ago the god, like me 
The worm, learned, each in our de- 
gree : 
Looked and loved, learned and drew. 
Drew and learned and loved again. 
While fast the happy minutes flew. 

Till beauty mounted into his V»rain 
And on the finger which outvied 
His art he placed the ring that's 
there. 
Still by fancy's eye descried, 

In token of a marriage rare : 
For him on earth, his art's despair, 
For him in heaven, his soul's fit 
bride. 

ni. 
Little girl with the poor coarse hand 
I turned frouj to a cold clay cast — 
I have my lesson, uuderstHud 
The worth of flesh and blood at 
last! 



Nothing l>ut beauty in a Hand ? 
Because he could not change the 

hue, - 
Mend the lines and make them true 
To this which met his soul's de- 
mand, — 
Would Da Vinci turn from you ? 
I hear him laugh my woes to scorn — 
" The fool forsooth is all forlorn 
Because the beauty, she thinks best. 
Lived long ago or was never born, — 
Because no beauty bears the test 
In this rough i)easant Hand ! Con- 
fessed 
' Art is null and study void ! ' 
So sayest thou ? So said not I, 
Who threw the faulty j>encil by, 
And years instead of hours empl<»yed, 
Learning the veritab.le use 
Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath 
Lines and hue of the outer sheath, 
If haply I might reproduce 
One motive of the mechanism, 
Flesh aud bone and nerve that make 
The [X)orest coar.sest human hand 
An object worthy to be scanned 
A whole life long for their sole sake. 
Shall earth and the cramped moment- 
space 
Yield the heavenly crowning grace ? 
Xow the parts and then the whole 1 
Who art thou, with stinted soul 
And stunted body, thus to cry 
'I love, — shall that be life's strait 

dole? 
I must live beloved or die ! ' 
This peasant hand that spins the wool 
And bakes the bread, why lives it on. 
Poor and coarse with beauty gone, — 
What use survives the beautv? 
Fool ! " 

Go, little girl with the poor coarse 

hand ! 
I have my lesson, shall understand. 



IX. 

OX DECK. 



There is nothing to remember in me, 
Nothing I ever said with a grace. 

Nothing I did that you care to see. 
Nothing I was that deserves a place 

In your mind, now I leave you, set 
you free. 



178 



RESPECTABILITY. 



Conceded ! In turn, concede to me. 
Such things have been as a mutual 
flame. 
Your soul's locked fast ; but, love for 
a key, 
You might let it loose, till I grew 
the same 
In your eyes, as in mine you stand : 
strange plea ! 



For then, then, what would it matter 
to me 
That I was the harsh, ill-favored 
one ? 
We both should be like as pea and 
pea ; 
It was ever so since the world be- 
gun : 
So, let me proceed with my reverie. 



How strange it were if you had all 
me, 
As I have all you in my heart and 
brain. 
You, whose least word brought gloom 
or glee, 
Who never lifted the hand in vain 
Will hold mine yet, from over the sea ! 



Strange, if a face, when you thought 
of me, 
Rose like your own face present 
now, 

'With eyes as dear in their due de- 
gree, 
Much such a mouth, and as bright a 
brow. 

Till you saw yourself, while you cried 
" 'Tis She ! " 



VI. 

Well, you may, you must, set down to 
me 
Love that was life, life that was 
love ; 

A tenure of breath at your lips' de- 
cree, 
A passion to stand as your thoughts 
approve, 

A rai)ture to fall where your foot 
might be. 



But did one touch of such love for me 
Come in a word or a look of yours, 
Whose words and looks will, circling, 
flee 
Round me and round while life en- 
dures, — 
Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels 
He;" 

VIII. 

Why, fade you might to a thing like 

me. 
And your hair grow these coarse 

hanks of haii-. 
Your skin, this bark of a gnarled 

tree, — 
You might turn mj'self ! — should 

I know or care, 
When I sliould be dead of iov, James 

Lee? 



RESPECTABILITY. 



Dkar, had the world in its caprice 
Deigned to proclaim " 1 know you 

both. 
Have recognized your plighted 
troth, 
Am sponsor for you : live in 

peace ! " — 
How many precious months and years 
Of vouth had passed, that speed so 

fast. 
Before we found it out at last, 
The world, and what it fears ? 



How much of priceless life were spent 
With men that every Airtue decks, 
And women models of their sex, 

Society's true ornament, — 

Ere we dared wander, nights like 
this. 
Through wind and rain, and watch 

the Seine, 
And feel the Boulevart break again 

To warmth and light and bliss? 



I know ! the world proscribes not 
love ; 
Allows my finger to caress 
Your lijis' contour and downiness, 

Pro\ ideil it supply a glove. 



DIS ALITER VISUM ; OR, LE BYRON BE NOS JOURS. 179 



The world's good word! — the Insti- 
tute ! 
Guizot receives Moiitalembert ! 
Eh? Down the court three lamp- 
ions rtare : 
Put forward your best foot ! 



DIS ALITER VISUM; OR, LE 
BYRON DE NOS JOURS. 



Stop, let me have the truth of that ! 

Is that all true ? I say, the day 
Ten years ago when both of us 

Met on a morning, friends — as thus 
We meet this evening, friends or 
what ? — 



Did you — because I took your arm 
And sillily smiled, " A mass of 
brass 
That sea looks, blazing underneath ! " 
While up the cliff-road edged with 
heath. 
We took the turns nor came to 
harm — 

III. 

Dm! you consider " Now makes twice 
That I have seen her, walked and 
talked 
With this poor pretty -thoughtful 
thing, 
Whose worth I v/eigh : she tries to 
sing ; 
Draws, hopes in time the eye grows 
nice ; 

IV. 

** Reads verse and thinks she under- 
stands ; 
Loves all, at any rate, that's great, 
Good, beautiful ; but much as we 
Down at the bath-house love the 
sea. 
Who breathe its salt and bruise its 
sands : 

V. 

•* While ... do but follow the fish- 
ing-gull 
That haps and floats from wave to 
cave ! 



There's the sea-lover, fair my friend ! 
What then ? Be patient, mark and 
mend ! 
Had you the making of your skull ? " 



vi. 
And did you, when we faced the 
church 
With spire and sad slate roof, aloof 
From human fellowship so far. 

Where a few graveyard crosses are, 
And garlands for " the swallows' 
perch, — 



Did you determine, as we stepped 
O'er the lone stone fence, " Let me 
get 
Her for myself, and what's the earth 
With all its art, verse, music, 
worth — 
Compared with love, found, gained, 
and kept ? 

viir. 
" Schumann's our music-maker now ; 
Has his march-movement youth and 
mouth ? 
Ingres's the modern man that paints ; 
Which will lean on me, of his 
saints ? 
Heine for songs ; for kisses, how ? " 



And did you, when we entered, 
reached 
The votive frigate, soft aloft 
Riding on air this hundred years. 
Safe-smiling at old hopes and 
fears, — 
Did you draw profit while she 
preached ? 



Resolving, " Fools we wise men grow ! 

Yes, I could easily blurt out curt 
Some question that might find reply 

As prompt in her stopped lips, 
dropped eye 
And rush of red to cheek and brow : 

XI. 

" Thus were a match made, sure and 
fast, 
'Mid the blue weed-flowers round 
the mound 



180 DIS ALITER VISUM ; OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS. 



Where, issuing, we shall stand and 
stay 
For one more look at baths and bay, 
Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church 

last — 

XII. 

" A match 'twixt me, bent, wigged, 
and lamed, 
Famous, however, for verse and 
worse. 
Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair 
When gout and glory seat me there. 
So, one whose love-freaks pass uu- 
blamed, — 



xin. 
" And this young beauty, round and 
souiul 
As a mountain-apple, youth and 
truth 
With loves and doves, at all events 

With money in the Three per Cents ; 
Whose choice of me would seem pro- 
found : — 



*' She might take me as I take her. 

Perfect the hour would pass, alas ! 
Climb high, love high, what matter ? 
Still, 
Feet, feelings, must descend the 
hill : 
An hour's perfection can't recur. 



XV. 

** Then follows Paris and full time 
For both to reason : ' Thus with 
us,' 
She'll sigh, ' Thus girls give body and 
soul 
At first word, think they gain the 
goal. 
When 'tis the starting-place they 
climb ! 

xvr 
** * My friend makes verse and gets 
renown ; 
Have they all fifty years, his peers? 
He knows the world, firm, quiet, and 
Ray; 
Boys will become as much one 
" day : 
They're fools ; he cheats, with beard 
less brown. 



XVII. 

" ' For boys say. Lore me or I die ! 

He did not say, The tralh la, youth 
I leant, icho am old and knoio loo much ; 
Fd catch youth: lend me sight and 
touch ! 
Drop heart's blood where life's wheels 
grate dry ! ' 

XVIII. 

" While I should make rejoinder" — 
(then 
It was, no doubt, you ceased that 
least 
Light pressure of my arm in j'^ours) 
" ' I can conceive of cheap<ir cures 
For a y awning-fit o'er books and 
men. 



" ' What? All I am, was, and might 
be. 
All, books taught, art brought, life's 
whole strife. 
Painful results since precious, just 
Were fitly exchanged, iu wise dis- 
gust, 
For two (jheeks freshened by youth 
and sea ? 

XX. 

" ' All for a nosegay ! — what came 
first ; 
With fields in flower, untried each 
side ; 
I rally, need my books and men. 

And find a nosegay : ' drop it. then, 
No match yet made for best or 
Vv'oi'st ! " 

XXI. 

That ended me. You judged the porch 
We left by, Norman : took our look 

At sea and sky ; wondered so few 
Find out the place for air and view ; 

Remarked the sun began to scorch ; 

XXII. 

Descended, soon regained tlu^ baths. 
And then, good-by ! Yi-ars ten 
since then : 
Ten years ! We meet : you tell me, 
now, 
By a window-seat for that cliff- 
brow, 
On carpet -stripes for those sand- 
paths. 



CONFESSIONS. 



181 



xxrii. 
Now I may speak : 3' on fool, for all 
Your lore ! Who made tliiugs plaiu 
in vain ? 
What was the sea for ? What, the 
gray 
Sad church, that solitar3^ day, 
Crosses and graves and swallows' 
call? 

XXIV. 

Was there naught better than to en- 
joy? 
No feat which, done, would make 
time hreak, 
And let us pent-uji creatures through 

Into eternity, our due ? 
No forcing earth teach heaven's em- 
ploy? 

XXV. 

No wise beginning, here and now, 
What cannot grow complete (earth's 
feat) 
And heaven must finish, there and 
then ? 
No tasting earth's true food for 
men. 
Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet ? 



XXVI. 

No grasping at love, gaining a share 
O' tlie sole spark from God's life at 
strife 
With death, so, sure of range above 

The limits here ? For us and love, 
Failure ; but, when God fails, de- 
spair. 



This you call wisdom ? Thus you 
add 
Good unto good again, in vain ? 
You loved, with body worn and 
weak ; 
I loved, with faculties to seek : 
Were both loves worthless since ill- 
clad ? 



XXVIII. 

Let the mere star-fish in his vault 
Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed, 

Rose-jacynth to the finger-tips : 
He, whole in bod3'^ and soul, out- 
strips 

Man, found with either in default. 



XXIX. 

But what's whole, can increase no 
more, 
Is dwarfed and dies, since here's its 
sphere. 

The Devil laughed at you in his 
sleeve ! 
You knew not ? That I well be- 
lieve ; 

Or you had saved two souls : nay, 
four. 

XXX. 

For Stephanie sprained last night her 
wrist, 
Ankle or something. *' Pooh," cry 
you ? 
At any rate she danced, all say, 

Vilely: her vogue lias had its day. 
Here comes my husband from "^his 
whist. 



CONFESSIONS. 



What is he buzzing in my ears ? 

'■ Now that I come to die. 
Do I view the world as a vale of 
tears? " 

Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 

II. 

What T viewed there once, what I 
view again 
Where the physic bottles stand 
On the table's edge, — is a suburb 
lane. 
With a wall to my bedside hand. 

III. 
That lane sloped, much as the bottles 
do. 
From a house you could descry 
O'er the garden-wall : is the curtain 
blue 
Or green to a healthy eye ? 



To mine, it serves for the old June 
weather 
Blue above lane and wall ; 
And that farthest bottle labelled 
"Etlier" 
Is the house o'er-topijing all. 



182 



THE nOUSEHOLDER. 



V. 

At a terrace, somewhat near the stop- 
per, 

There watched for me, one June, 
A girl : I know, sir, it's improper, 

My poor mind's out of tune. 



YI. 

Only, there was a way . . . you crept 
Close by the side, to dodge 

Eyes in the house, two eyes except : 
They styled their house " The 
Lodge." 



"What right had a lounger up their 
lane ? 
But, by creeping very close. 
With the good wall's help, — their 
eyes might strain 
And stretch themselves to Oes, 



viri. 
Yet never catch her and me together, 

As she left the attic, there. 
By the rim of the bottle labelled 
"Ether," 
And stole from stair to stair, 



And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. 
Alas, 

We loved, sir — used to Tneet : 
How sad and bad and mad it was — 

But then, how it was sweet ! 



THE HOUSEHOLDER. 



Savage I was sitting in my house, 
late, lone : 
Dreary, weary with the long day's 
work : 
Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a 
stone : 
Tongue-tied now, now blasphem- 
ing like a Turk ; 
When, in a moment, just a knock, 
call, cry. 
Half a pang and all a rapture, there 
again were we ! — 



" "What, and is it really you again ? " 
quoth I : 
"I again, what else did you ex- 
pect? " quoth She. 



" Never mind, hie away from this old 
house — 
Every crumbling brick embrowned 
with sin and shame ! 
Quick, in its corners ere certain 
shapes arouse ! 
Let them — every devil of the 
night — lay claim, 
Make and mend, or rap and rend, for 
me ! Good-by ! 
God be their guard from disturbance 
at their glee, 
Till, crash, comes down the cai'cass in 
a heap ! " quoth I : 
'■■ Naj% but there's a decency re- 
quired ! " quoth She. 



"Ah, but if you knew how time has 
dragged, days, nights ! 
All the neighbor-talk with man and 
maid — such men ! 
All the fuss and trouble of street- 
sounds, window-sights : 
All the worry of flapping door and 
echoing roof ; and then. 
All the fancies . . . Who were they 
had leave, dared try 
Darker arts that almost struck de- 
spair in me ? 
If you knew but how I dwelt down 
here ! " quoth I : 
" And was I so better off up there ? " 
quoth She. 



" Help and get it over ! Re-itnitcd to 
his ici/e 
(How draw up the paper lets the 
parish-people know !) 
Lies M. or iV., departed from this life, 
Day the this or that, month and year 
the so and so, 
What i' the way of final flourish ? 
Prose, verse ? Try ! 
Affliction sore, lonr/ time he bore, or, 
what is it to be ? 
Till God did please to (/rant him ease. 
Do end ! " quoth I : 
"I end with — Love is all and 
Death is naught ! " quoth Slie. 



CAVALIER TUNES. 



183 



TRAY. 

Sing me a liero ! Quench my thirst 
Of soul, ye bards ! 

Quoth Bard the lirst : 
" Sir Olaf, the jjood knight, did don 
His heira and eke his habergeon "... 
Sir Olaf and his bard ! — 

"That sin-scathed brow" (quoth 
Bard the second), 

" That eye wide ope as though Fate 
beckoned 

My hero to some steep, beneath 

Which precipice smiled tempting 
Death" . . . 

You too wirliout your host have reck- 
oned ! 

" A beggar-child " (let's hear this 

third !) 
" Sat on a quay's edge : like a bird 
Sang to herself at careless play, 
And fell into the stream. ' Dismay ! 
Help, you the standers-by ! ' None 

stirred. 

*' By-standers reason, think of wives 
And children ere tliey risk their lives. 
Over the balustrade has bounced 
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
Plumb on the prize. 'How well he 
dives ! 

*' * Up he comes with the child, see, 

tight 
In mouth, alive too, clutched from 

quite 
A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet ! 
Good dog ! What, off again ? There's 

yet 
Another child to save ? All right ! 

" ' How strange we saw no other fall ! 

It's instinct in the animal. 

Good dog ! But he's a long while 
under : 

If he got drowned I should not won- 
der — 

Strong current, that against the wall ! 

" ' Here he comes, holds in mouth 

this time 
— What may the thing be? Well, 

that's prime ! 
Now, did you ever ? Reason reigns 
In man alone, since all Tray's pains 
Have fished — the child's doll from 

the slime ! ' 



" And so, amid the laughter gay. 
Trotted my hero off, — old Tray, — 
Till somebody, prerogatived 
With reason, reasoned : * Why he 

dived. 
His brain would show us, I should 

say. 

" 'John, go and catch — or, if needs 

be. 
Purchase that animal for me ! 
By vivisection, at expense 
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, 
How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll 

see ! ' " 



CAVALIER TUNES. 
I. 

MARCHING ALONG. 



Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 
Bidding the crop-headed Parliament 

swing : 
And, i^ressing a troop unable to stoop 
And see tlie rogues flourish and hon- 
est folk droop. 
Marched them along, fifty-score 

strong, 
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
sonar. 



God for King Charles ! Pym and 

such carles 
To the Devil that prompts 'em their 

treasonous paries ! 
Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take 

nor sup 
Till you're — 
(Chorus) Marching along, fifUj-score 
strong, 
Great - hearted gentlemen, 
singing this song. 



Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' 

knell. 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young 

Harry as well ! 



184 



CAVALirR TUNES. 



England, .cjood cheer ! Rupert is 

near ! 
Kentish and loN-alists, keep we not 
here 
(Chorus) Marchinf/ aloiKj, fifty-score 
stronr/, 
Great - hearted f/entlemen, 
sing my this song. 



Then, God for King Charles! Pym 

and his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pes- 
tilent carles ! 
Hold by the right, you double your 

might : 
So, on ward to Nottingham, fresh for 
the fight, 
{Chorus) March roe alo)ig, fifttj-scorc 
strong, 
Great - hearted gentlemen, 
singing this song. 



II. 

GIVE A ROUSE. 



King Charles, and who'll do him 

right now ? 
King Ciiarles, and who's ripe for fight 

now ? 
Give a rouse : here's, in hell's despite 

now, 
King Charles ! 

II. 

Who gave me the goods that went 

since ? 
Who raised me the house that sank 

once ? 
Who helped me to gold I spent since ? 
Who found me in wine you drank 
once ? 
(Chorus) King Charles, and who'll 
do him right noio ? 
Kmg Charleft, and who'y 

ripe for fight noir ? 
Give a rouse: here's, m 

heirs despite now, 
Kinu Charles! 



To whom used inj boy George quaff 

else. 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For vrhoiu did ho ch(;er and laugh else, 
Vv'liile Nolls damned troojiers shot 
him ? 
(Choru.s) King Charles, and icho'll 
do him right vgic? 
Ki)ig Charles, and ichors 

ripe for fight noio ? 
Give a rouse : hei-e's, ii 

hell's despite noio, 
King C/uirlcs ! 



III. 

BOOT AXD SADDLE. 

I. 
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery 
gray, 
(Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
aicay ! * 



Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd 

say ; 
Many's the friend there, will listen 

and pray, 
" God's luck to gallants that strike up 
the lay — 
(Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away .' " 



Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round- 
heads' array : 
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, 
by my fay, 
(Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away ? " 



Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, hon- 
est and gay, 
Laughs when you talk of surrender- 
ing, " Nay ! 
I've better counsellors ; what coun- 
sel they ? 
(Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
away ! " 



AFTER. 



185 



BEFORE. 



I. 



Let them fight it out, friend ! things 

have gone too far. 
God must judge the couple : leave 

theui as they are 
— Whichever one's the guiltless, to 

his glory, 
And whichever one the guilt's with, 

to my story ! 



"Why, you would not bid men, sunk 

in such a slough, 
Strike no arm out farther, stick and 

stink as now, 
Leaving rig] it and wrong to settle the 

embroihnent. 
Heaven with snaky hell, in torture 

and entoilment ? 



"Who's the culprit of them? How 

miist he conceive 
God — tlie queen he caps to, laughing 

in his sleeve, 
** 'Tis but decent to profess one's self 

beneath her : 
Still, one must not be too much in 

earnest, either ! " 



sin, sure that 
Life will 



IV. 

Better sin the whole 

God observes ; 
Then go live his life out ! 

try his nerves, 
"When th(! sky, which noticed all, 

makes no disclosure. 
And the earth keeps up her terrible 

composure. 

V. 

Let him pace at pleasure, past the 

walls of rose. 
Pluck their fruits when grape-trees 

graze him as he goes ! 
For he 'gins to guess the purpose of 

the garden, 
"With tlie sly mute thing, beside there, 

for a warden. 



"What's the leopard-dog-thing, con- 
stant at his side, 

A leer and lie in every eye of its ob- 
sequious hide ? 



"When will come an end to all the 

mock obeisance. 
And the price appear that pays for 

the misfeasance ? 

VII. 

So much for the culprit. "Who's the 

martyred man ? 
Let him bear one stroke more, for be 

sure he can ! 
He that strove thus evil's lump with 

good to leaven. 
Let him give his blood at last and get 

his heaven ! 

A'lII. 

All or nothing, stake it ! Trusts he 
God or no ? 

Thus far and no farther ? farther ? be 
it so ! 

Now, enough of your chicane of pru- 
dent pauses, 

Sage provisos, sub-intents, and saving- 
clauses ! 



Ah, " forgive " you bid him ? While 

God's champion lives, 
Wrong shall be resisted : dead, why, 

he forgives. 
But jou must not end my friend ere 

you begin him : 
Evil stands not crowned on earth, 

while breath is in him. 

X. 

Once more — Will the wronger, at 
this last of all, 

Dare to sav, " I did wrong," rising in 
his fall? 

No ? — Let go, then ! Both the fight- 
ers to their places ! 

While I count three, step you back as 
many paces ! 



AFTER. 



Take the cloak from his face, and at 
first 
Let the corj^se do its worst ! 

How he lies in his rights of a man. 

Death has done all death can. 
And, absorbed in the new life he 
leads. 

He recks not, he heeds 



186 



HERVE RIEL. 



Nor liis wrong nor my vengeance : 
both strike 
On his senses alike, 
And are lost in the solemn, and 
strange 
Surprise of the change. 

Ha, what avails death to erase 

His offence, my disgrace ? 
I would we were boys as of old 

In the field, by the fold : 
His outrage, God's patience, man's 
scorn 

"Were so easily borne ! 

I stand here now, he lies in his place : 
Cover the face ! 



HERVE RIEL. 



On the sea and at the Hogiie, sixteen 
hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French,— 
woe to France ! 

And. the thirty-first of May, helter- 
skelter through the bUie, 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises 
a shoal of sharks pursue. 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. 
Malo on the Ranee, 

With the English tieet in view. 



•Twas the squadron that escaped, with 
the victor in full chase ; 
First and foremost of the drove, in 
his great ship, Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
And they signalled to the place 
" Help the winners of a race ! 
Get us guidance, give us harbor, 
take us (piick — or, quicker still. 
Here's the English can and will ! " 



Then the pilots of the place put out 

brisk and leapt on board ; 
' Why. what hope or chance have 

ships like these to pass?" 

laughed they : 
'* Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all 

the passage scarred and scored, 



Shall the ' Formidable ' here vrith her 
twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by 
the single narrow way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a 
craft of twenty tons. 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 

IV. 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate : 
"Here's the English at our heels; 
would j'ou have them take in 
tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked 

together stern and bow. 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
" Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the Captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn 
the vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 



" Give the word ! ' But no such 

word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 
For up stood, for out stepped, for in 
struck ainid all these 
— A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A 
Mate — first, second, third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed 
by Tourville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel 
the Croisickese. 

VI. 

And, " What mockery or malice have 
we here ? " cries Herve' Riel : 
" Are you mail, you Maloums ? Are 
you cowards, fools, or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me 

who took the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shal- 
low, every swell 
'Twixt the ofiing here and Greve 
where the river disembogues ? 
Are you bonght by English gold ? Is 
it love the lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 



HERVE RIEL. 



187 



Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at the 
foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? 
That were worse than fifty 
Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I sjieak the truth ! 
Sirs, believe me there's a way ! 
Only let me Ijad the line, 
Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 
And I lead them, most and least, by a 
passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 
And there lay them safe and 
sound ; 
And if one ship misbehave, 
— Keel so much as grate the 
ground. 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — 
here's my head ! " cries Herve 
Kiel. 



Not a minute more to wait. 

•' Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save 
the squadron ! " cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
Keeps the passage as its inch of way 
were the wide sea's profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock. 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a 
keel that grates the ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last. 
And just as Herv^ Riel hollas " An- 
chor ! " — sure as fate, 
Up the English come, too late ! 

virr. 
So. the storm subsides to calm : 

They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts timt bled are stanched with 

balm. 
" Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay. 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 



'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant rid- 
ing on the Ranee ! " 
How hope succeeds despair on each 

Captain's countenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 
" This is Paradise for Hell ! 
Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the 
thing ! " 
What a shout, and all one word, 

" Herve Riel ! " 
As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton ej'es, 
Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
I must speak out at tlie end. 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the King his ships. 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 
Ask to heart's content and have ! or 
my name's not Damfreville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke. 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done. 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic 
Poitit, what is it but a run? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom 
I call the Belle Aurore ! " 
That he asked and that he got, — 
nothing more. 



Name and deed alike are lost : 
Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as 

it befell ; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single tishing-smack. 
In memory of the man but for whom 

had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the 

fight whence England bore the 

bell. 



188 IN A BALCONY. 



Go to Paris : rank on rank 
Search the heroes tiniifr pell-mell 

On the Louvre, face and tlank ! 
You shall look long enough ere you 
come to Herve Kiel. 



So, for better and for worse, 

Herve Eiel, accejit my A'erse ! 

In my verse, Herve Kiel, do thou once 

more 
Save the squadron, honor France, 

love thy wife the Belle Aurora ! 



IN A BALCONY. 

Constance and Norbert. 



Nor. Now ! 

Con. Not now ! 

Nor. Give me them again, those hands - 

Put them upon my forehead, how it throbs ! 
Press them before my eyes, the tire comes through ! 
You cruellest, you dearest in the world. 
Let me ! The Queen must grant whate'er I ask — 
How can I gain you and not ask the Queen ? 
There she stays waiting for me, here stand you ; 
Some time or other this was to be asked , 
Now is the one time — what I ask, I gain : 
Let me ask now, Love ! 

Con. Do, and ruin us ! 

Nor. Let it be now, Love ! All my soul breaks forth. 
How I do loA'e you ! Give my love its way ! 
A man can have but one life and one death. 
One heaven, one hell. Let me fulHl my fate — 
Grant me my heaven now ! Let me know you mine, 
Prove you inine, write my name upon your brow, 
Hold you and have yon, and then die away, 
If God please, with completion in my soul ! 

Con. I am not yours then ? How content this man 1 
I am not his — who change into himself, 
Have passeil into his JM-'art and beat its beats, 
Who give my hands to him, my eyes, tny hair, 
Give all that was of me away to him — 
So well, that now, my spirit turned his own, 
Takes part with him against the woman here, 
Bids him not stumble at so mere a straw 
As caring that the world be cognizant 
How he loves her and how she worships him. 
You have this woman, not as yet that world. 
Go on, I bid, nor stoji to care for me 
By saving what I cease to care about. 
The courtly name and pride of circumstance — 
The name you'll pick up and be cumbered with 
Just for the poor parade's sake, nothing more ; 
Just that the world may slip from under you — 
Just that the world may cry " So uuuh for him — 
The man predestined to the heap of crowns : 
There goes his chance of winning one, at least ! " 

Nor. The world ! 

Con. You love it ! Love me quite as well, 

And see if I shall pray for this in vain ! 
Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks? 



TN A BALCONY. 189 



Nor. You pray for — what, in vain ? 

Con. Oh my heart's heart, 

How I do love yon, Norbert ! That is right : 
But listen, or l\ake my hands away ! 
Yon say, '* Let it be now : " xoxi would go now 
And tell the Queen, perhaps six ste])s from us, 
You love me — so you do, thank God ! 

Xot: Thank God ! 

Con. Yes, Norbert, — but you fain would tell your love, 
And, what succeeds The telling, ask of her 
My hand. Now take this rose and look at it, 
Listening to mt-. You are the minister. 
The Queen's tirst favorire, nor without a cause. 
To-night completes your wonderful year"s-work 
(This'palace-feast is held to celebrate) 
Made memorable by her life's success. 
The junction of two crowns, on her sole head, 
Her house had only dreamed of anciently : 
That this mere dream is grown a stable truth, 
To-night's feast makes authentic. "Whose the praise? 
"Whose genius, patience, energy, achieved 
"What turned the many heads and broke the hearts ? 
You are the fate, your minute's in the heaven. 
Next comes the Queen's turn. " Name your own reward ! " 
"With leave to clinch the past, chain the to-come, 
Put out an arm and touch and take the sun 
And fix it ever full-faced on your earth. 
Possess yourself supremely of her life, — 
You choose the single thing she will not grant ; 
Nay, very declaration of which choice 
"Will turn the scale and neutralize your work : 
At best she will forgive you, if she can. 
You think I'll let you choose — her cousin's hand ? 

Xor. "Wait. First, do you retain your old belief 
The Queen is generous, — nay, is just '? 

Con. " There, there, 

So men make women love them, while they know 
No more of women's hearts than . . . look you here, 
You that are just and generous beside, 
Make it your own case ! For example now, 
I'll say — I let 3'ou kiss me, hold my hands — 
"Why ? do you know why ? I'll instruct you, then — 
The kiss, because yon have a name at court. 
This hand and this, that you may shut in each 
A jewel, if you please to pick up such. 
That's horrible ? Apply it to the Qiieen — 
Suppose I am the Queen to whom you speak. 
" I was a nameless man : you needed me : 
"SYhy did I jiroflfer you ray aid ? there stood 
A certain pretty cousin at your side. 
"Why did I make such common cause with you? 
Access to her had not been easy else. 
You give my labors here abundant praise ? 
'Faith, lal)or, which she overlooked, grew play. 
How shall your gratitude discharge itself ? 
Give me her hand ! " 

Yo?\ And still I urge the same. 

Is the Queen just? just — generous or no ! 

Con. Yes, just. You love a rose ; no harm in that : 



190 7.V A BALCONY. 



But was it for the rose's sake or mine 

You put it in your \)osoui ? mine, you said — 

Then, mine you still must say or else be false. 

You told the Queen you served her for herself ; 

If so, to serve her was to serve yourself, 

She thinks, for all your unbelieving face ! 

I know her. In the hall, six steps' from ns, 

One sees the twenty pictures ; there's a life 

Better than life, and yet no life at all. 

Conceive her born iu such a magic dome, 

Pictures all round her ! why, she sees the world, 

Can recognize its given things and facts, 

The fight of giants or the feast of gods, 

Sages in senate, beauties at the bath, 

Chases and battles, the whole earth's display. 

Landscape and sea-piece, down to flowers and fruit - 

And who shall question that she knows them all, 

In better semblance than the things outside? 

Yet bring into the silent gallery 

Some live thing to contrast in breath and blood, 

Some lion, with the painted lion there — 

You think she'll understand composedly? 

— Saj', " That's his fellow in the hunting-piece 

Yonder, I've turned to praise a hundred times ? " 

Not so. Her knowdedgc of oiir actual earth, 

Its hopes and fears, concerns and sympathies, 

Must be too far, too mediate, too unreal. 

The real exists for lis outside, not her : 

How should it, with that life in these four walls, 

That father and that mother, first to last 

No father and no mother — friends, a heap. 

Lovers, no lack — a husband in due time, 

And every one of them alike a lie ! 

Things painted by a Rubens out of naught 

Into what kindness, friendship, love should be ; 

All better, all more grandiose than life, 

Only no life ; mere cloth and surface-paint. 

You feel, while you admire. How should she feel ? 

Yet now that she has stood thus fifty years 

The sole spectator in that gallery, 

You think to bring this warm real struggling love 

In to her of a sudden, and suppose 

She'll keep her state untroubled ? Here's the truth 

She'll apprehend truth's value at a glance. 

Prefer it to the pictured loyalty ? 

You only have to say " So men are made, 

For this tliey act ; the thing has many names. 

But this the right one : and now. Queen, be just ! " 

Your life slips back ; you lose her at the word : 

You do not even for amends gain me- 

He will not understand ! O Norbert, Norbert ! 

Do you not understand ? 

lYor. The Queen's the Queen, 

I am myself — no picture, but alive 
In every nerve and every muscle, here 
At the palace-window o'er the people's street, 
As she in the galhu'y where the pictures glow : 
The good of life is precious to us both. 
She cannot love ; what do I want with rule ? 



When first I saw your face a year ago 

I knew my life's good, my soul heard one voice — 

" The woman yonder, there's no use of life 

But just to obtain her ! heap earth's woes in one 

And bear them — make a pile of all earth's joys 

And spurn them, as they help or help not tliis ; 

Only, obtain her ! " — how was it to be ? 

I found you were the cousin of the Queen ; 

I must then serve the Queen to get to you. 

Xo other way. Suppose there had been one, 

And I, by saying prayers to some white star 

With promise of my body and my soul, 

Might gain you, — should I pray the star or no ? 

Instead, there was the Queen to serve ! I served. 

Helped, did what other servants failed to do. 

Neither she sought nor I declared my end. 

Her gootl is hers, my recompense be mine, 

I therefore name you a.s that recompense. 

She dreamed that such a thing could never be ? 

Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause 

In love of power, high fame, pure loyalty? 

Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives 

Chasing such shades. Then, I've a fancy too ; 

I worked because I want you with my soul : 

I therefore ask your liantl. Let it be now ! 

Con. Had i not loved you from the very first, 
Were I not yours, could we' not steal out thus 
So wickedly, so wildly, and so well, 
You might become impatient. What's conceived 
Of us without here, by tlie folks within ? 
Where are you now ? immersed in cares of state 
Where am t now ? — intent on festal robes — 
We two, embracing under death's spread hand ! 
What was tliis thought for, what that scruple of yours 
Which broke the council up ? — to bring about 
One minute's meeting in the corridor ! 
And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, 
Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs, 
Lonz-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, 
'• Does she know ? does she not know ? saved, or lost ? ' 
A year of this compression's ecstasy 
All goes for nothing ! you would give this up 
For the old way, the open way, the world's, 
His way who beats, and his who sells his wife ! 
What tempts you ? — their notorious happiness. 
That you are ashamed of ours ? The best you'll gain 
Will be — the Queen grants all that you require, 
Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you 
And me at once, and gives us ample leave 
To live like our five hundred happy friends 
The world will show us with officious baud 
Our chamber-entry and stand sentinel. 
Where we so oft have stolen across its traps ! 
Get the worUl's warrant, ring the falcons' feet, 
And make it duty to be bold and swift, 
Which long ago was nature. Have it so ! 
We never hawked by rights till flung from fist ? 
Oh, the man's thought 1 no woman's stich a fool. 

Nor. Yes, the man's thought and my thought, which is more — 



192 IN A BALCONY. 



One made to love you, let the world take note ! 

Have I done worthy work ? be love's the praise, 

Though hampered hy restrictions, barred agaiust 

By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies ! 

Set free my love, and see what love can do 

Shown in my life — what work will spring from that ! 

The world is used to have its business done 

On other grounds, tind great effects produced 

For power's sake, fame's sake, motives in men's mouth. 

So, good : but let my low ground shame their high ! 

Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true ! 

And love's the truth of mine. Time prove the rest ! 

I choose to wear you stamped all over me, 

Your name upon my forehead and my breast. 

You, from the sword's blade io the ribbon's edge, 

That men may see, all over, you in me — 

That pale loves ujay die out of their pretence 

In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. 

Permit tliis, Constance ! Love has been so long 

Subdued in me, eating me through and through, 

That now 'tis all of me and must have way. 

Think of my work, that chaos of intrigues, 

Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays. 

That long endeavor, earnest, patient, slow. 

Trembling at last to its assured result — 

Then think of this revulsion ! I resume 

Life after death (it is no less than life, 

After such long unlovely laboring days), 

And liberate to beauty life's great need 

O' the beautiful, which, while it prompted work, 

Suppressed itself erewhile.- This eve's the time, 

This eve intense with yon first trembling star 

We seem to pant and reach ; scarce auglit between 

The earth that rises and the heaven that bends ; 

All nature self-abandoned, every tree 

Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts 

And fixed so, every flower and every weed, 

No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat ; 

All under God, each measured by itself. 

These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct, 

The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed, 

The Muse forever wedded to her lyre. 

The Nymph to her fawn, the Silence to her rose : 

See God's approval on his universe ! 

Let us do so — aspire to live as these 

In harmony with truth, ourscdves beiug true ! 

Take the first way, and let the second come ! 

My first is to possess myself of 30U ; 

The music sets the march-step — forward, then ! 

And there's the Queen, I go to claim you of. 

The world to witness, wonder, and applaud. 

Our flower of life breaks open. No delay ! 

Con. And so shall we be ruined, both of us. 
Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone : 
You do not know her, were not born to it, 
To feel what she can see or cannot see. 
Love, she is generous, —ay, despite your smile. 
Generous as you are : for, in that thin frame 
Pain-twisted]^ punctured through and through with cares. 



TN A BALCONY. li^3 



There lived a la^^sll soul until it starved 

Debarred all healthy food. Look to the soul — 

Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin 

(The true uian's-way) on justice and your rights, 

Exactions and acquittance of the past ! 

Begin so — see what justice she will deal ! 

We women hate a debt as men a gift. 

Suppose her sou>.e poor keeper of a school 

Whose business is to sit through summer months 

And dole out children leave to go and play, 

Herself superior to such lightness — she 

In the arm-chair's state and pedagogic pomp, 

To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside : 

We wonder such a face looks black on us ? 

I do not bid you wake her tenderness 

(That were vain truly — none is left to wake). 

But, let her think her justice is engaged 

To take the shape of tenderness, and mark 

If she'll not coldly vny its warmest debt ! 

Does she love me, I ask you? not a whit : 

Yet, thinking that her justice was engaged 

To help a kinswoman, she took me up — 

Did more on that bare ground than other loves 

Would do on greater argument. For me, 

I have no equivalent of such cold kind 

To pay her with, but love alone to give 

If I give any thing. I give her love : 

I feel I ought to help her, and I will. 

So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice 

That women hate a debt as men a gift. 

If I were you, I could obtain this grace — 

Could lay the whole I did to love's account. 

Nor yet be very false as courtiers go — 

Declaring my success was recompense ; 

It would be so, in fact : what were it else ? 

And then, once loose her generosity, — 

Oh, how I see it ! then, were I but you 

To turn it, let it seem to move itself, 

And make it offer what I really take. 

Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand, 

Her value as the next thing to the Queen's — 

Since none love Queens directly, none dare that. 

And a thing's shadow or a name's mere eclio 

Suffices those who miss the name and thing ! 

You pick up just a ribbon she has worn, 

To keep in proof how near her breath you came. 

Say, I'm so near I seem a piece of her — 

Ask for me that way — (oh, you imderstand) 

You'd find the same gift yielded with a grace, 

Which, if you make tlie least show to extort . . . 

— You'll see ! and when you have ruined both of us, 

Dissertate on the Queen's ingratitude ! 

Nor. Then, if I turn it tliat way, you consent ? 
'Tis not my way ; I have more hojie in truth : 
Still, if 3'ou won't have truth — why, this indeed, 
Were scarcely false, as I'd express the sense. 
Will you remain here ? 

Con. O best heart of mine, 

How I have loved you ! then, you take my way ? 



194 IN A BALCONY. 



Are mine as you have been her minister, 
Woi'k out my thonj^ht, give it effect for me, 
Paint ]ilain my poor conceit and make it serve ? 
I owe that witliered woman every thing — 
Life, fortune, you, remember ! Take my part — 
Help me to pay her ! Stand upon your rights ? 
You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you? 
Your rights are mine — you have no rights li)Ut mine. 

Nor. Remain here. How you know me ! 

Con. Ah, but still — 

[He breaks from her: she remains. Dance-music from within. 

Enter the Queen. 

Queen. Constance ? She is here as he said. Speak quick 1 
Is it so ? Is it True or false ? One word ? 

Con. True. 

Queen. Mercifullest Mother, thanks to thee ! 

Con. Madam ? 

Queen. I love you, Constance, from my soul. 

Now say once more, with any words you will, 
'Tis true, all true, as true as that I speak. 

Con. Why should you doubt it ? 

Queen. Ah, why doubt? why doubt? 

Dear, make me see it ! Do you see it so ? 
None see themselves ; another sees them best. 
You say, " Why doubt it ? " — j^ou see him and me 
It is because the Mother has such grace 
That if we had but faith — wherein we fail — 
Whate'er we j-earn for would be granted us ; 
Howbeit we let our whims prescribe despair, 
Our very fancies thwart and cramp our will, 
And so,' accepting life, abjure ourselves. 
Constance, I had abjured the hope of love 
And being loved, as truly as yon palm 
The hope of seeing Egj^pt from that plot. 

Con. Heaven ! 

Queen. But it was so, Constance, it was so I 

Men say — or do men say it ? fancies say — 
" Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old. 
Too late — no love for you, too late for love — 
Leave love to girls. Be queen : let Constance 'ove ! " 
One takes th(^ hint — half meets it like a child, 
Ashamed at any feelings that o]>pose. 
" O love, triu'!, never think of love again ! 
I am a queen : I rule, not love, indeed." 
So it goes on ; so a face grows like this, 
Hair like this hair, poor arms as lean as these, 
Till, — nay, it docs not end so, I thank God ! 

Con. I cannot understand — 

Queen. The happier you I 

Constance. I know not how it is with men : 
For women (I am a woman now like you) 
There is no good of life but love — but love ! 
What else looks good, is some shade flung from love ; 
Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me, 
Never you cheat yourself one instant ! Love, 
Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest I 
O Constance, howl love you I 



IN A BALCONY. 195 



Con. I lore you. 

Queen. I do believe that all is come through you. 
I took you to luy heart to keep it warm 
AVhen tlie last chance of love seemed dead in me ; 
I thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart. 
Oil, I am very old now, am I not? 
Not so ! it is true and it shall be true ! 

Con. Tell it me : let me judge if true or false. 

Queen. Ah, but I fear you ! you will look at me 
And say, " She's old, she's "grown unlovely (juite 
Who ne'er was beauteous : men want beauty still." 
Well, so I feared — the curse ! so I felt sure ! 

Con. Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say ? 

Queen. Constance, he came, — the coming was not strange — 
Do not I stand and see men come and go ? 
I turned a half-look from my pedestal 
Where I grow marble — " one young man the more ! 
He will love some one ; that is naught to me : 
AVhat would he with my marble stateliness? " 
Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore ; 
The man more gracious, youthful, like a god, 
And I still older, with less flesh to change — 
We two those ilear extremes that long to touch. 
It seemed still harder when he lirst began 
Absorbed to labor at the state-affairs 
The old way for the old end — interest. 
Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts * 

Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands. 
Professing they've no care but for your cause, 
Thought but to help you, love but for yourself, 
And you the marble statue all the time 
They praise and point at as preferred to life, 
Yet leave for the lirst breathing woman's cheek, 
First dancer's, gypsy's, or street l)aladine's ! 
Why, how I have ground my teeth to hear men's speech 
Stitied for fear it should alarm my ear. 
Their gait subdued lest step should startle me, 
Their eyes declined, such queendom to respect, 
Theu' Iiands alert, such treasure to preserve. 
While not a man of them broke rank and spoke, 
Or wrote me a viilgar letter all of love. 
Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand ! 
There have been moments, if the sentinel 
Lowering his halbert to salute the queen. 
Had tlung it brutally and clasped my knees, 
I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. 

Con. AVho could have comprehended ? 

Queen. Ay, who — who? 

Why, no one, Constance, but this one who did. 
Nor they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps 
It comes too late — w(mld you but tell the truth. 

Con. I wait to tell it. 

Queen. Well, you see, he came, 

Outfaced the others, did a work this year 
Exceeds in value all was ever done. 
You know — it is not I who say it — all 
Say it. And so (a second pang and worse) 
I grew aware not only of what he did. 
But why so wondrously. Oh, never work 



196 IN A BALCONY 



Like his was done for work's Ignoble sake — 

It must have finer aims to lure it on ! 

I felt, I saw, he loved— loved somebody. 

And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know, 

I did believe this while 'twas you he loved. 

Con. Me, Madam ? 

Queen. It did seem to me, your face 

Met him where'er he looked : and whom but you 
"Was such a man to love ? It seemed to me, 
You saw he loved you, and approved the love, 
And so you both were in intelligence. 
You couUl not loiter in the garden, step 
Into this balcony, but I straight was stung 
And forced to understand. It seemed so true, 
So right, so beautiful, so like you both, 
That all this work should have been done by him 
Not for the vulgar hope of recompense, 
But that at last — suppose, some night like this — 
Borne on to claim his due reward of me. 
He might say, " Give her hand and pay me so." 
And I (O Constance, j^ou shall love me now !) 
I thought, surmounting^ all the bitterness, 
— " And he shall have it. I will make her blest, - 
My flower of youth, m^' woman's self that was, 
My haj^jnest woman's self that might have been ! 
These two shall have their joy and leave me here." 
Yes — yes ! 

Con. Thanks ! 

Queen. And the word was on my lips 

When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear 
A mere calm statement of his just desire 
For paynjent of his labor. When — O heaven, 
How can I tell you ? cloud was on my eyes 
And thunder in my ears at that first word 
Which told 'twas love of me, of me, did all — 
He loved me — from the first step to the last. 
Loved me ! 

Con. You did not hear . . . you thought he spoke 

Of love ? what if you should mistake ? 

Queen. No, no — 

No mistake ! Ha, there shall be no mistake ! 
He had not dared to hint tlie love he felt — 
You were my reflex — (how I understood !) 
He said you were the ribbon I had worn, 
He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes. 
And love, love was the end of every phrase. 
Love is begun ; this much is con)e to pass : 
The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours ! 
I will learn, I will place my life on you, 
But teach me how to keep what I have won ! 
Am I so old ? This hair was early gray ; 
But joy ere now has brought hair brown again. 
And joy will bring the cheek's red back, I feel. 
I could sing once too ; that was in my youth. 
Still, when men paint me, they declare me . . . yea, 
Beautiful — for the last French painter did ! 
I know they fiatter somewhat ; you are frank — 
I trust you. How I loved you from the first ! 
Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out 



IN A BALCONY. 197 



Aud set her by their side to take the eye : 

I must have felt that good would come from you. 

I am not generous — like him — like you ! 

Kut he is not your lover after all : 

It was not you he looked at. Saw you him ? 

You have not been inistaking words or looks? 

He said you were the retiex of myself. 

And yethe is not such a paragon 

To you, to younger women who may choose 

AnioDg a thousand Norberts. Speak the truth ! 

You know 3'ou never named his name to me — 

You know/l cannot give him up — ah God, 

Not up now, even to you ! 

Con. Then cahn yourself. 

Queen. See, I am old —look here, you happy girl ! 
I will not play the fool, deceive myself ; 
'Tis all gone : put your cheek beside my cheek — 
Ah, what a contrast does the moon behold ! 
But then I set my life upon one chance. 
The last chance and the best — am /not left. 
My soul, myself? All women love great men, 
If young or old ; it is in all the tales : 
Young beauties love old poets who can love — 
AVhy should not he, the poems in my soul, 
The love, the passionate faith, the sacrifice, 
The constanc}^ ? I throw them at his feet. 
"VVho cares tosee the fountain's very shape, 
Ami whether it be a Triton's or a Nymph's 
That pours the foam, makes rainbows all around ? 
You could not praise indeed the empty conch ; 
But I'll pour floods of love and hide myself. 
How I will love him ! Cannot men love love ? 
Who was a queen and loved a poet once 
Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that ! 
Well, but men too : at least, they tell j'ou so. 
They love so many women in their youth. 
And even in age they all love whom they please ; 
And yet the best of them confide to friends 
That 'tis not beauty makes the lasting love — 
Thej' spend a day with such and tire the next : 
They like soul, —well then, they like fantasy. 
Novelty even. Let us confess the truth. 
Horrible though it be, that prejudice, 
Prescription . . . curses ! they will love a queen, 
They will, they do : and will not, does not — he ? 

Con. How can he ? You are wedded : 'tis a name 
We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains, 
His rank remains. How can he, nobly souled 
As you believe and I incline to tliink. 
Aspire to be your favorite, shame and all ? 

Queen. Hear her ! There, there now — could she love like me? 
What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace ? 
See all it does or could do ! so, youtJi loves ! 
Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do 
What I will — you, it was not born in ! I 
Will drive these difticulties far and fast 
As yonder mists curdling before the moon. 
I'll use my light too, gloriously retrieve 
My youth from its enforced calamity, 



198 JX A BALCONY 



Dissolve that hateful inaiTiao:e, and be his, 
His own in the eyes alike of God and man. 

Co)i. You will do — dare do . . . pause on what j'ou say ! 

Queen. ?Iear her ! I thank you, sweet, for that surprise. 
You have the fair face : for the soul, see mine ! 
I liave the strong soul : let me teach j-ou, here. 
I think I have borne enough and long enough, 
And patiently enough, the world remarks, 
To have my own way now, unblamed by all. 
It does so happen (I rejoice for it) 
This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot. 
There's not a better way of settling claims 
Than this : God sends the accident express : 
Antl were it for my subjects' good, no more, 
'Twere best thus ordered. I am thankful now, 
Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive, 
And bless God simply, or should almost fear 
To walk so smoothly to my ends at last. 
AVliy, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate ! 
How strong I am ! Could Norbert see me now ! 

Con. Let me consider ! It is all too strange. 

Queen. You, Constance, learn of me ; do you, like me ! 
Y'ou are young, beautiful : my own, best girl, 
Y''ou will have many lovers, and love one — 
Light hair, not hair like Norbert's, to suit yours, 
And taller than he is, for yourself are tall. 
Love him, like me ! Give all away to him ; 
Think never of yourself ; throw by your pride, • 

Hope, fear, — your own good as you saw it once, 
And love him simply for his veiw self 
Remember, I (and what am I to you ?) 
"Would give up all for one, lea^-e throne, lose life, 
Do all but just unlove him ! He loves me. 

Con. He shall. 

Queen. \"ou, step inside my inmost heart ! 

Give me your own heart : let us have one heart ! 
I'll come to you for counsel ; " this he says, 
This he does ; what should this amount to, pray ? 
Beseech you, change it into current coin ! 
Is that worth kisses ? Shall I ]ilease him there ?" 
And then we'll si)eak in turn of you — what else ? 
Your love, according to your beauty's worth, 
For yon shall have some noble love, all gold : 
Whom choose you ? we will get him at your choice. 
— Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since, 
I felt as I nnist die or be alone 
Breathing my soul into an ear like yours : 
Now, I would face the world with u)y new life, 
With my new crtnvn. I'll walk around the rooms, 
And then come back and tell you how it feels. 
How soon a smile of God can change the world ! 
How we are made for haiijiiness — liow work 
Grows play, adversity a winning fight ! 
True I ha\e lost so many years : what then V 
Many remain : God has been very got)d. 
You, staj^ here ! 'Tis as different from dreams, 
From the mind's cold calm estimate of bliss, 
As these stone statues from the flesh and blood. 
The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon ! 

[.S/te goes out, leaviny Constance. Dance-music from within.] 



IN A BALCONY. 199 



XoRBEKT enters. 

Nor. TVell ? we have but one minute and one word ! 

Con. I am yours, l!sorbert ! 

Nor. " Yes, mine. 

Con. Xot till now ! 

You were mine. Now I give myself to you. 

X<>r. Constance ? 

Con. Your own ! I know the thriftier way 

Of giving — haply, 'tis the wiser way. 
Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole 
Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, 
With a new largess still at each despair). 
And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve 
Exhanstless to the end my part and yours, 
My giving and your taking ; both our joys 
Dying together? Is it the'wiser way ? 
I choose the simpler : I give all at once. 
Know what you have to trust to, trade upon ! 
Use it, abuse it, — any thing but think 
Hereafter, " Had I known "she loved me so. 
And what my means, I might liave thriven with it." 
This is your means. I give you all myself. 

Nor. I take you and thank God. 

Con. Look on through years ! 

"We cannot kiss, a second day like this ; 
Else were this earth, no earth. 

Nor. With this day's heat 

We shall go on through vears of cold. 

Con. ' So, best! 

— I try to see those years, — I think I see. 
You walk quick and' new warnjth comes ; you look back 
And lay all to the tirst glow — not sit down 
Forever brooding on a day like this 
While seeing the embers whiten and love die. 
Yes, love lives best in its effect ; and mine, 
Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours. 

Nor. Just so. I take and know you all at once. 
Your soul is disengaged so easily, 
Your face is there. I know you ; give me time, 
Let me be proud and think you shall know me. 
My soul is slower : in a life I roll 
The minute out whereto you condense yours — 
The whole slow circle round you I must move, 
To be just you. I look to a long life 
To decompose this minute, pruve its worth. 
'Tis the sparks' long succession one by one 
Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed 
In that mere stone you struck : how could you know, 
If it lay ever unproVed in your sight, 
As now ray heart lies ? your own warmth would hide 
Its coldness, were it cold. 

Con. But how prove, how ? 

Nor. Prove in my life, you ask ? 

Con . Quick, Norbert — how ? 

Nor. That's easy told. I count life just a stuff 
To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. 
Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. 
As with the body — he who hurls a lance 



200 IN A BALCONY. 



Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike, 
So I will seize and use all means to prove 
And show this soul of mine, yon crown as yours, 
And justify us both. 

Con. Could yon write books. 

Paint pictures ! One sits down in jioverty 
And writes or paints, with pity for the rich. 

Nor. And loves one's painting and one's writing, then, 
And not one's mistress ! All is best, believe. 
And we best as no other than v/e are. 
We live, and they experiment on life — 
Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof 
To overlook tlie farther. Let us be 
The thing they look at ! I might take your face 
And write of it, and paint it, — to what end ? 
For whom ? what pale dictatress in the air 
Feeds, smiling sadly, her tine ghost-like form 
"With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous life 
She makes despised forever ? You are mine. 
Made for me, not for others in the world. 
Nor yet for tliat which I should call my art. 
The cold calm power to see how fair you look. 
I come to you ; I leave you not, to write 
Or i>aint. "You are, I am : let Rubens there 
Paint us ! 

Con. So, best ! 

Nor. I understand your soul. 

You live, and rightly sympathize Avith life, 
With action, ]>o\ver,' success. This way is straight ; 
And time were short beside, to let me change 
The craft njy childliood learnt : my craft shall serve. 
Men set me here to subjtigate, enclose, 
Manure their barren lives, and force the fruit 
First for themselves, and afterward for me 
In the due tithe ; the task of sf>me one man, 
Through ways of work appointed by themselves. 
I am not bid create, — they see no star 
Transfiguring my brow to warrant that, — 
But bind in one and carry out their wills. 
So I began : to-night sees how I end. 
What if it see, too, my first outbreak here 
Amid the warmth, surprise, and sympathy, 
And instincts of the heart that teach the head? 
What if the people have discerned at length 
The dawn of the next nature, the new man 
Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, 
And who, they "trust, shall find them out new ways 
To heights as new which yet he only sees ? 
I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, 
This people, — in our i)hrase, this mass of men, — 
See how the mass lies passive to my hand 
And how m.y hand is plastic, and you by 
To make the muscles iron ! Oh, an end 
Shall crown this issiu: as this crowns the first ! 
!My will be on this people ! then, the strain, 
The grapi)ling of the potter with his clay. 
The long, uncertain struggle. — the success 
And consummation of the spirit-work, 
Some vase shaped to the curl of the god's lip, 



TN A BALCONY. 201 



While rounded fair for lower men to see 

The Graces in a danoe all rec^ognize 

"With turbulent applause and laughs of heart ! 

So triumph ever shall renew itself ; 

Ever shall end in efforts higher yet, 

Ever begin . . . 

Con. I ever helping ? 

Nor. Thus ! 

[^.s /it embraces her, the Queen enters.'^ 

Con. Hist, madam ! So I have performed my part. 
You see your gratitude's true decency, 
Norbert ? A little slow in seeing it ! 
Begin to end the sooner ! What's a kiss ? 

Nor. Constance ? 

Con. Why, must I teach it you again ? 

You want a witness to your dulness, sir ? 
What was I saying these ten minutes long ? 
Then I repeat, — when some j^oung, handsome man 
Like you has acted out a part like yours, 
Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond, 
So very far beyond him, as he says, — 
So hopelessly in love that but to speak 
Would prove him mad, — he thinks judiciously, 
And makes some insignificant good soul. 
Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant. 
And very stalking-horse to cover him 
In following after what he dares not face — 
When his end's gained — (sir, do you understand ?) 
When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, 
— May I not say so, madam ? — tops his hope. 
And overpasses so his wildest dream, 
With glad consent of all, and most of her 
The confidant who brought the same about — 
Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, 
I do hold that the merest gentleman 
Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, 
Dismiss it with a " There, enougli of you ! " 
Forget it, show his back unmannerly ; 
But like a liberal heart will rather turn 
And say, " A tingling time of hope was ours : 
Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two lived 
A chanceful time in waiting for the prize : 
The confidant, the Constance, served not ill. 
And though I shall forget her in due time, 
Her use being answered now, as reason bids, 
Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts, — 
Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her. 
The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool, 
And the first —which is the last — rewarding kiss." 

Nor. Constance, it is a dream — ah, see, you smile ! 

Con. So, now his part being properly performed, 
Madam, I turn to you ami finish mine 
As duly : I do justice in my turn. 
Yes, madam, he has loved you — long and vrell ; 
He could not hope to tell you so — 'twas I 
Who served to prove your soul accessible, 
I led his thoughts on,' drew them to their place 
When else they had wandered out into despair, 
And kept love constant toward its natural aim. 



202 IN A BALCOXr. 



Enough, my part is played ; you stoop half-way 

And meet iis royally and spare our fears : 

'Tis like yourself. He Thanks you, so do I 

Take him — with my full heart ! my work is praised 

By what comes of it. Be you happy, both ! 

Yourself — the only one on earth who can — 

Do all for him, much more than a mere heart 

Which though warm is not useful in its warmth 

As the silk vesture of a ipieeu ! fold that 

Around him gently, tenderly. For him — 

For him, — he knows his own part ! 

Xor. Have you done ? 

I take the jest at last. Should I speak now ? 
Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child, 
Or did you but accept it ? Well — at least 
You lose by it. 

Con. Nay, madam, 'tis your turn ! 

Restrain him still from speech a little more. 
And make him happier and more confident ! 
Pity him, madam, he is timid yet ! 
Mark, Norbert ! Do not shrink now ! Here T yield 
My whole right in you to the Queen, observe ! 
With her go put in practice the great schemes 
You teem with, follow the career else closed — 
Be all you cannot be except by her ! 
Behold her ! — Madam, say for pity's sake 
Any thing — frankly say you love him ! Else 
He'll not believe it : there's mon- earnest in 
His fear than you conceive : I know the man ! 

Nor. I know the woman somewhat, and confess 
I thought she had jested better : she begins 
To overcharge her part. I gravely wait 
Your pleasure, maclam : where is my reward? 

Queen. Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize 
Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit, 
Eccentric speech, tind variable mirth. 
Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, 
Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange) 
— May still be right : I may do well to speak 
And make authentic what appears a dream 
To even myself. For what she says is truth. 
Yes, Norbert — what you spoke just now of love, 
Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me, 
But justified a warmth felt long before. 
Yes, from the rtrst — I loved you, I shall say : 
Strange ! but I do grow stronger, now 'tis said. 
Your courage helps mine : you did well to speak 
To-night, the night that crowns your twelvemonths' toil : 
But still I had not waited to discern 
Your heart so long, believe me ! From the first 
The source of so much zeal was almost plain, 
In absence even of your own words just now 
Which opened out the trutli. 'Tis very strange. 
But takes a happy ending — in your love 
Which mine meets : be it so ! as you choose me. 
So I choose you 

Nor. And worthily you choose. 

I will not be unworthy your esteem, 
No, madam. I do love you ; I will meet 



IN A BALCONY. 203 



Your nature, now I know it. This was well. 
I see, — you dare and you are justified : 
But none had ventured such experiment, 
Less versed than you in nobleness of heart, 
Less confident of finding such in me. 
I joy that thus you test me ere you grant 
The' dearest, richest, beauteousest, and best 
Of women to my arms : 'tis like yourself. 
So — back again into my part's set words — 
Devotion to the uttermost is yours, 
But no, you cannot, madam, even you, 
Create in me the Ictve our Constance does. 
Or — something truer to the tragic phrase — 
Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent 
Invites a certain insect — that's myself — 
But the small eye-tlower nearer to the ground. 
I take this lady. 

Con. Stay — not hers, the trap — 

Stay, Norbert — that mistake were worst of all ! 
He is too cunning, madam ! It was I, . 
I, Norbert, who . . . 

Nor. You, was it, Constance? Then, 

But for the grace of this divinest hour 
Which gives me you, I might not pardon here ! 
I am the Queen's ; she only knows my brain : 
She may experiment therefore on my heart 
And I instruct her too by the result. 
But you, Sweet, you who know me, who so long 
Have told my heart-beats over, held my life 
In those white hands of yours, — it is not well ! 

Con. Tush ! I liave said it, did I not say it all ? 
The life, for her — the heart-beats, for her sake ! 

Nor. Enough ! my cheek grows red, I think. Your test? 
There's not the meanest woman in the \vorld, 
Not she I least could love in all the world. 
Whom, did she love me, did love prove itself, 
I dare insult as you insult me now. 
Constance, I could say, if it must be said, 
" Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine ! " 
But — " Take the soul still quivering on your hand, 
The soul so offered, which I cannot use, ' 
And, please you, give it to some playful friend, 
For — what's the Grille he requites me with ? " 
— I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man, 
That two may mock her heart if it succumb ? 
No : fearing God and standing 'neath his heaven, 
I would not dare insult a woman so, 
Were she the meanest woman in the world, 
And he, I cared to please, ten emperors ! 

Con. Norbert ! 

Nor. I love once as I live but once. 

What case is this to think or talk about ? 
I love you. Would it mend the case at all 
Should such a step as this kill love in me ? 
Your part were done : account to God for it ! 
But mine — could murdered love get up again, 
And kneel to whom you please to designate, 
And make you mirth ? It is too horrible. 
You did not know this, Constance ? now you know 



204 IN A BALCONY. 



That body and soul have each one life, hut one ; 
And here's my love, here, living, at your feet. 

Con. See the Queen ! Norbert — this one more last word — 
If thus you liave taken jest for earnest — thus 
Loved me in earnest . . . 

Nor. Ah, no jest holds here ! 

TVhere is the laughter in which jest breaks up, 
And what this horror that grows palpable ? 
Madam — why grasp you thus the bah-ony? 
Have I done ill ? Have I not spoken truth ? 
How could I other ? Was it not your test, 
To tr\' nje, what my love for Constance meant? 
Madam, your royal soul itself approves, 
The first, that I should choose thus ! so one takes 
A beggar, — asks him, what would buy his child ? 
And then approves the expected laugh of scorn 
Returned as something noble from the rags. 
Speak, Constance, I'm the beggar ! Ha, what's this? 
You two glare each at each like panthers now. 
Constance, the world fades : only you staud there ! 
You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things, 
Sell me — your soul of souls, for any price? 
No — no — 'tis easy to believe in you ! 
Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop 
Mine by this vain self-sacrifice ? well, still — 
Though I should curse, T love you. I am love 
And cannot change : love's self is at your feet ! 

[T/ic Queen goes out. 

Con. Feel my heart : let it die against your own ! 

Nor. Against my own. Explain not : let this be ! 
This is life's height. 

Con. Y'ours, j'ours, yours ! 

Nor. " You and I — 

"Why care by what meanders we are here 
I' the centre of the labyrinth ? Men have died 
Trying to find this place, which we have found. 

Con. Found, found ! 

Nor. Sweet, never fear what she can do I 

We are past harm now. 

Con. On the breast of God. 

I thought of men — as if you were a man. 
Tempting him with a crown ! 

Nor. This must end here : 

It is too perfect. 

Con. There's the music stopped. 

What measured heavy tread ? It is one blaze 
About me and within me. 

Nor. Oh, some death 

Will run its sudden finger round this spark 
And sever us from the rest ! 

Con. And so do well. 

Now the doors open. 

Nor. 'Tis the guard comes. 

Con. Bliss I 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 



205 



OLD PICTURES IX FLOR- 
EXCE. 



I. 
The mom when first it thunders in 
March, 
The eel in the i>ond gives a leap, 
they say. 
As I leaned and looked over the aloed 
arch 
Of the villa-gate this warm March 
day. 
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder 
rolled 
In the valley beneath where, white 
and wide 
And washed by the moridng water- 
gold, 
Florence lay out on the mountain- 
side. 

II. 
River and bridge and street and 
square 
Lav mine, as much at mv beck and 
* call, 
l^irough the live translucent bath of 
air. 
As tlie sights in a magic crystal-ball. 
And of all I sa\v and of all I praised. 
The most to praise and the best to 
see 
"Was the startling bell-tower Giotto 
raised : 
But why did it more than startle 
me? 



Giotto, how, with that soul of yours. 
Could you play me false who loved 
you so ? 
Some 'slights if a certain heart en- 
dures 
Yet it feels, I would have your fel- 
lows know ! 
I' faitb, I perceive not why I should 
care 
To lireak a silence that suits them 
best, 
But the thing grows somewhat hard 
to l>ear 
"When I find a Giotto join the rest. 



IV. 

On the arch where olives overhead 
Print the blue skv with twig and 
leaf 



(That sharp-curled leaf which they 
never slied), 
'Twixt the aloes, I used to leam in 
chief, 
And mark through the wluter after- 
noons, 
By a gift God grants me now and 
then, 
In the mild decline of those suns like 
moons, 
"Wlio walked in Florence, besides her 
men. 



They might chirp and chafEer, come 
and go 
For pleasure or profit, her men 
alive — 
My business was hardly with them, I 
trovr, 
But wirh empty cells of the human 
hive ; 
— With the chapter-room, the cloister- 
porcli, 
The church's apsis, aisle or nave, 
Its crypt, one fingers along with a 
torch. 
Its face set full for the sun to shave. 



"Wlierever a fresco peels and drops. 
Wherever an outline weakens and 
wanes 
Till the latest life in the painting 
stops. 
Stands One whom each fainter pulse- 
tick pains : 
One, wishful each scrap should clutch 
the brick, 
Each tinge not wholly ^cape the 
plaster, 
— A lion who dies of an ass's kick. 
The wronged great soul of au an- 
cient 2*Iaster. 



vir. 
For oh, this world and the wrong it 
! <loes ! 

I They are safe in heaven with their 

backs to it. 
The Michaels and Eafaels, you hum 
and buzz 
Round the works of, you of the little 
wit! 
Do their eyes contract to the earth's 
old scope, 
Now that they see God face to face. 



206 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 



And have all attained to be poets, I 
hope ? 
'Tis their holida3'- now, in any 
case. 



Much they reck of yonr praise and 
you ! 
But'the wron.Gfed great souls — can 
they he quit 
Of a world where their work is all to 
do, 
"Where xou style them, you of the 
littl" wit. 
Old Master This and Early the Other, 
Not dreaming that Ohl and New are 
fellows : 
A younger succeeds to an elder 
brother. 
Da Vincis derive in good time from 
Dellos. 



And here where your praise might 
yield returns. 
And a handsome word or two give 
help, 
Here, after your kind, the mastiff 
girns, 
And the puppy pack of poodles 
yelp. 
"What, not a word for Stefano there, 
Of brow once prominent and starry, 
Called Nature's Ape and the world's 
despair 
For liis peerless painting ? (see Va- 
sari.) 



Tliere stands the ^Master. Study, my 
friends, 
"What a man's work comes to ! So 
he plans it. 
Perforins it, perfects it, makes amends 
For the toiling and moiling, and 
then, sir transit ! 
Happier the thrifty blind-folk labor, 
With upturned eye while the hand 
is busy. 
Not sidling a glance at the coin of 
their neighbor ! 
'Tis looking downward makes one 
dizzy. 



If you knew their work you would 

deal your dole," 
May I take upon me to instruct 

you ? 



"When Greek Art ran and reached the 
goal. 
Thus much had the world to boast 
in f met II — 
The Truth of Man, as by God first 
spoken, 
"S\"hich the actual generations gar- 
ble. 
Was re-uttered, and Soul (which 
Limbs betoken) 
And Limbs (Soul informs) made 
new in marble. 



So, you saw yourself as you wished 
you were. 
As you might have been, as you 
cannot be ; 
Earth here, rebuked by Olympus 
there : 
And grew content in your poor de- 
gree 
"With your little power, by those 
statues' godhead, 
And your little scope, by their eyes' 
full sway, 
And your little grace, by their grace 
embodied, 
And your little date, by Iheir forms 
that stay. 

XIII. 

You would fain be kinglier, say, than 
I am ? 
Even so, you will not sit like The- 
seus. 
You wouhl prove a model ? The Son 
of Priam 
Has yet the advantage in arms' and 
knees' use. 
You're uToth — can you slay your 
snake like Apollo ? 
You're grieved — still Niobe's the 
gi'ander ! 
You live — there's the Racers' frieze 
to follow : 
You die — there's the dying Alex- 
ander. 

XIV. 

So, testing your weakness by their 
strength , 
Your meagre charms by their 
rounded beauty. 
Measured by Art in your breadth and 
length. 
You learned — to submit is a mor- 
tal's duty. 



— When T say " you," 'tis the common 
soul, 
The collective, I mean : the race of 
Man 
That receives life in parts to live in a 
whole, 
And grow here according to God's 
clear jDlan. 



Growth came when, looking your last 
on them all. 
You turned your eyes inwardly one 
fine day 
And cried with a start — What if we 
so small 
Be greater and grander the while 
than they ? 
Are they perfect of lineament, per- 
fect of stature ? 
In hoth, of such lower types are we 
Precisely because of our wider nature ; 
For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. 

XVI. 

To-day's brief passion limits their 
range ; 
It seethes with the morrow for us 
and more. 
They are perfect — how else? they 
shall never change : 
We are faulty — why not ? we have 
time in store. 
The Artificer's hand is not arrested 
With us ; we are rough-hewn, no- 
wise polished. 
They stand for our copy, and, once 
invested 
With all they can teach, we shall 
see them abolished. 



'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be 
leaven — 
The better ! What's come to per- 
fection perishes. 
Things learned on earth, we shall 
practise in heaven : 
Works done least rapidly, Art most 
cherishes. 
Thyself shalt afford the example, 
Giotto ! 
Thy one work, not to decrease or 
diminish, 
Done at a stroke, was iust (was it 
not?) "Oh!" 
Thy great Campanile is still to fin- 
ish. 



xviir. 
Is it true that we are now, and shall 
be hereafter, 
But what and where depend on 
life's minute ? 
Hails heavenly cheer or infernal 
laughter 
Our first step out of the gulf or in 
it? 
Shall Man, such step within his en- 
deavor, 
Man's face, have no more play and 
action 
Than joy which is crystallized forever. 
Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? 

XIX. 

On which I conclude, that the early 
painters, 
To cries of " Greek Art and what 
more wish you ? " — 
Replied, " To become now self-ac- 
quainters, 
And paint man, man, whatever the 
issue ! 
Make new ho]ies shine through the 
flesh they fray. 
New fears aggrandize the rags and 
tatters : 
To bring the invisible full into play, 
Let the visible go to the dogs — 
what matters?" 



Give these, I exhort you, their guer- 
don and glory 
For daring so much, before they 
well did it. 
The first of the new, in our race's 
story. 
Beats the last of the old ; 'tis no 
idle quiddit. 
The worthies began a revolution. 
Which if on earth you intend to 
acknowledge. 
Why, hoTior them now ! (ends my al- 
locution) 
Nor confer your degree when the 
folks leave college. 



There's a fancy some lean to and 
others hate — 
That, when this life is ended, begins 
New work for the soul in another 
state, 
Where it strives and gets weary, 
loses and wins : 



208 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 



"Where the strong and the weak, this 
world's congeries, 
Repeat in large what they practised 
in small, 
Through lile after life iu unlimited 
series ; 
Only the scale's to be changed, 
that's all. 

XXII. 

Yet I hardly know. When a soul has 
seen " 
By the means of Evil that Good is 
best, 
And, through earth and its noise, 
what is heaven's serene, — 
When our faith in the same has 
stood the test — 
Why, the child grown man, you burn 
the rod. 
The uses of labor are surely done ; 
There reniaineth a rest for the people 
of God : 
And I have had troubles enough, 
for one. 

XXIII. 

But at any rate I have loved the sea- 
son 
Of Art's spring-birth so dim and 
dewy ; 
My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 

My painter — who but Cimabue? 
Nor even was man of tliera all in- 
deed, 
From these to Ghiberti and Ghir- 
landajo. 
Could say that he missed my critic- 
meed. 
So, now to my special grievance — 
heigh-ho ! 

XXIV. 

Their ghosts still stand, as I said be- 
fore, 
Watching each fresco flaked and 
rasped. 
Blocked up, knocked out, or white- 
washed o'er : 
— No getting again what the Church 
lias grasped ! 
The works on the wall must take 
their chance ; 
*' Works never conceded to Eng- 
land's thick clime ! " 
(I hope they prefer their inheritance 
Of a bucketful of Italian quick- 
lime.) 



XXV. 

When they go at length, with such a 
shaking 
Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly 
Each master his way through the 
black streets taking. 
Where many a lost work breathes 
though badly — 
Wh3^ don't they bethink them of who 
has merited ? 
Why not reveal, while their pic- 
tures dree 
Such doom, how a captive might be 
out-ferreted ? 
Why is it they never remember me ? 

XXVI. 

Not that I expect the great Bigordi, 
Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, 
bellicose ; 
Nor the wronged Lippino ; and not a 
word I 
Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico's : 
But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, 

To grant me a taste of your intonaco, 
Some Jerome that seeks the heaven 
with a sad eye ? 
Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Mo- 
naco ? 

XXVII. 

Could not the ghost with the close red 
cap. 
My Pollajolo, the twice a crafts- 
man. 
Save me a sample, give me the hap 
Of a muscular Christ that shows 
the draughtsman ? 
No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, 
Of finical touch and tempera 
crumbly — 
Could not Alesso Baldovinetti 
Contribute so much, I ask him 
humbly ? 

xxviir. 

Marglieritone of Arezzo, 
With the grave-clothes garb and 
swaddling barret 
(Why purse up mouth and beak in a 
pet so. 
You bald old saturnine poll-clawed 
parrot ?) 
Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, 
Where in the foreground kneels the 
donor ? 
If such remain, as is my conviction, 
The hoarding it does you but little 
honor. 



OLD PICTURES IX FLORESCE. 



209 



XXIX. 

They pass : for them the panels mav 
thrill, 
The tempera gro\r alive and tin- 
glish : 
Their pictures are left to the mercies 
still 
Of dealers and stealers, Jews and 
the English, 
"VTho, seemg mere money's worth in 
their prize, 
"SVill sell it to somebody calm as 
Zeno 
At naked High Art, and in ecstasies 
Before some clav-cold vile Carliuo ! 



XXX. 

Ko matter for these ! But Giotto, 
you. 
Have you allowed, as the town- 
tongues l>al>ble it — 
Oh, never ! it shall not be counted 
true — 
That a certain precious little tablet 
Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, 
Was buried so long in oblivion's 
womb 
And, left for another than I to dis- 
cover. 
Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — 
to whom ? 



XXXI. 

I, that have haunted the dim San 
Spirito, 
(Or was ir rather the Ognissanti ?) 
Patient on altar-step planting a wearv 
toe : 
Nay, I shall have it yet ! Detitr 
'amnnti! 
Mv Koh-i-noor — or (if that's a plati- 
tude) 
Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian 
Soft's eye : 
So, in anticipative gratitude, 
What if I take up my hope and 
prophesy ? 

xxxn. 
\V hen the hour grows rii>e, and a cer- 
tain dotard 
Is pitched, no parcel that needs in- 
voicing, 
To the worst side of the Mont St. 
Got hard, 
We shall begin by way oi rejoicing i 



None of that shooting the sky (blank 
cartridge), 
Xor a civic guard, all plumes and 
lacquer. 
Hunting Radetzky's soul like a par- 
tridge 
Over Morello with squib and crack- 
er. 

x-xxin. 
This time we'll shoot better game and 
bag 'em hot : 
Xo mere display at the stone of 
Dante, 
But a kind of sober Wiranagemot 
(Ex : " Casa Guiili," quud videos 

Shall ponder, once Freedom restored 
to Florence, 
How Art may return that departed 
with her. 
Go, hated house, go each trace of the 
Loraine's, 
And bring us the days of Orgagna 
hither ! 

XXXIV, 

How we shall prologuize, how we 
shall i^erorate, 
Utter lit things upon art and history, 
Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood 
at zero rate. 
Make of the want of the age no 
mystery . 
Contrast the fructuous and sterile 
eras. 
Show — monarchy ever its uncouth 
cub licks 
Out of the bear's shape into Chimse- 
ra's. 
While Pure Art's birth is still the 
republic's ! 

XXXV. 

Then one shall propose in a speech 
(curt Tuscan, 
Expurgate and sober, with scarcely 
an '' is^imo "), 
To end now our half-told tale of Cam- 
bnscan. 
And turn the bell-tower's alt to 
aUfSsimo • 
And, tine as the beak of a young 
beccaccia, 
The Campanile, the Duomo's fit 
ally, 
Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia. 
Completing Florence, as Florence, 
Italv. 



210 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



XXXVI. 

Shall I be alive that morning the scaf- 
fold 
Is broken away, and the long-pent 
fire, 
Like the golden hope of the world, 
niibaffled 
Springs from its sleep, and up goes 
the spire, 
While, "God and the People" plain 
for its motto. 
Thence the new tricolor flaps at the 
sky ? 
At least to foresee that glory of 
Giotto 
And Florence together, the first am 
I! 

Note. — The space li-ft here tempts to a 
•word on the line about Apollo the snake- 
slayer, which iny friend Professor Colvin 
condemns, believing that the God of the 
Belvedere grasps no bow, but the -^gis, as 
described in the loth Iliad. Surely the text 
represents that portentous object {tioiipiv, 



Seii'rji', a/x<^t5acreiai', apin-pcTre' — iJiaptJLapey]v) 
as " shaken violently " or " held immova- 
bly" by both hands, not a single one, and 
that the left hand : — 

aAAa <tv y" ev xeipeaai, Xa/3' alyiSa Ovaa- 

voeacrau 
TTju fjLCL\' iiriaaeiiov ({)o^e€LV rjpcoa? 'Axaiov^m 

and so on, rrjv dp' 6 y' ev Xetpetrcrti' €\u>v 
— Xepo-lv ex o-Tpe/xa, k. t. A. Moreover, 
while he shook it he " shouted enormous)}-," 
aeia', em 6' ai<TOs avrre pid\a fxeyat which 
the statue does not. Presently when Teuk- 
ros, on the other side, plies ihe bow, it is 
To^of e\u}f ei' x^'P' TTaAti'Toi'oi' Besides, 
by the act of discharging an arrow, tiie right 
arm and hand are thrown back as we see, — 
a quite gratuitous and theatrical display in 
the case supposed. The conjecture of Fl.ix- 
man that the statue was suggested by the 
bronze Apollo Alexikakos of Kalamis, men- 
tioned by Pausanias, remains probable ; 
though the '" hardness " which Cicero con- 
siders to distinguish the artist's workmanship 
Irom that of Muron is not by any means ap- 
jjurent in our marble copy, if it be one. — 
Feb. 16, 1880. 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY^ 



No more wine ? then we'll push back chairs and talk. 
A final glass for me, though : cool, i' faith ! 
AVe ought to have our Abbey back, you see. 
It's different, preaching in basilicas, 
And doing duty in some masterpiece 
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart ! 
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, 
Ciphers and stucco-twidd lings everywhere ; 
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln : eh? 
These hot, long ceremonies of our Church 
Cost us a little — oh, they pay the price. 
You take me — amply pay it ! Now we'll talk. 

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. 
No deprecation, — nay, I beg you, sir ! 
Beside 'tis our engagement : don't you know, 
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, 
We'd see truth" dawn together ? — truth that peeps 
Over tlie glass's edge wlien dinner's done, 
And body gets its sop and holds its noise. 
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time : 
'Tis break of day ! You do despise me then. 
And if I say, " despise me," — never fear ! 
I know you do not in a certain sense — 
Not in my arm-chair, for example : here. 
I will imagine you respect mj^ place 
{iitatus, entourage, worldly circumstance) 



BISHOP BLOU GRAM'S APOLOGY. 211 



Quite to its value — very much indeed : 

— Are up to the protesting eyes of you 
lu pride at being seated here for once — 
Youll turn it to such capital account ! 

"When somelx)dy, througli years and years to come. 

Hints of the bishop, — names me — that s enough : 

•' Blougram ? I knew him "' — (into it you slide) 

" Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, 

All alone, we two ; he's a clever man : 

And after dinner. — why, the wine you know, — 

Oh, there was wine, and good ! — what with the wine . 

'Faith, we began lapon all sorts of talk ! 

He's no bad fellow, Blougram : he had seen 

Something of mine lie relished, some review : 

He's quite above their humbug in his heart, 

Half said as much, indeed — the thing's his trade. 

I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times : 

How otherwise ? I like him. I confess ! " 

C%c che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome, 

Don't you protest now ! It's fair give and take ; 

You have ha<l your turn, and spoken your home-truths 

The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. 

Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays — 
You do despise me ; your ideal of life 
Is not the bishop's : you would not be I. 
You would like better to be Goethe, now, 
Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, 
Coimt D'Orsay, — so you did what you preferred, 
Spoke as you tiiought, and, as you cannot help, 
Believed or disbelieved, no matter what. 
So long as on that ]X)int, whate'er it was. 
You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yotirseLf. 

— That, my ideal never can include, 
Upon that element of truth and worth 
Never be based ! for say they make me Pope 
(They can't — suppose it for our argument), 
Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached 
My height, and not a height which pleases you : 
An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. 

It's like those eerie stories nurses tell," 

Of how some actor played Death on a stage, 

"With pastelx)ard crown, sham orb. and tinselled dart. 

And called himself the monarch of the world ; 

Then, going in the tire-room afterward. 

Because the play was done, to shift himself, 

Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, 

The moment he had shut the closet door. 

By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope 

At unawares, ask what his baubles mean. 

And whose part he presumed to play jxist now ? 

Best be yourself, imperial, i^lain, anil true ! 

So, drawing comfortable breath again, 
You weigh and find, whatever more or less 
I boast of my ideal realized. 
Is nothina: in the balance when opposed 
To your ideal, your grand simple life. 
Of which you will not realize one jot. 



212 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



I am much, \o\\ are nothing ; you would be all, 
I would be merely much : you beat me there. 

No, friend, you do not beat me : hearken why ! 
The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, 
Is — not to fancy what were fair in life 
Provided it could be, — but, lindins; first 
What may be, then find how to make it fair 
Up to ovir means : a very diiferent thing ! 
Ko abstract intellectual plan of life 
Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, 
But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, 
May lead within a world which (by your leave) 
Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. 
Embellish Rome, idealize away. 
Make paradise of London if you can, 
You're welcome, nay, you're wise. 

A simile ! 
We mortals cross the ocean of this world 
Each in his average cabin of a life ; 
The best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. 
Now for our six months' voyage — how prepare? 
You come on shipboard with a landsman's list 
Of things he calls convenient : so they are ! 
An India screen is pretty furniture, 
A piano-forte is a fine resource, 
All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, 
The new edition fifty volumes long ; 
And little Greek books, with the funny type 
They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next : 
Go on ! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes ! 
And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add ! 
'Twere pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow 
Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, 
Since he more than the others brings with him 
Italy's self, — the marvellous Modenese ! — 
Yet was not on your list before, perhaps 
— Alas, friend ! here's the agent . . . is't the name? 
The captain, or whoever's master here — 
You see him screw his face up ; what's his cry 
Ere you set foot on shipboard ? " Six feet square ! " 
If you won't understand what six feet mean, 
Coinpute and purchase stores accordingly — 
And if, in picjue because he overhauls 
Your Jerome, piano and bath, you come on board 
Bare — win-, you cut a figure at the first 
While sympathetic landsmen see you oflf ; 
Not afterward, when long ere half seas over. 
You peep up from your utterly naked hoards 
Into some snug and well-apiiointed berth, 
Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug — 
Put back the other, but don't jog the ice !) 
And mortified you nuitter " Well and good ; 
He sits enjoying his sea-furniture ; 
'Tis stout and proper, and there's store of it : 
Though I've the better notion, all agree. 
Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, 
Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances — 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 213 



I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all ! " 
And meantime you bring nothing : never mind — 
You've proved your artist-nature : what you don't 
You might bring, so despise me, as I say. 

Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. 
See my way : we're two college friends, suppose. 
Prepare together for our voyage, then ; 
Each note and check the other in his work, — 
Here's mine, a bishop's outfit ; criticise ! 
What's wrong ? why won't you be a bishop too ? 

Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't 
(Not statedly, that is, and fixedly 
And absolutely and exclusively), 
In any revelation called divine. 
No dogmas nail your faith ; and what remains 
But say so, like the honest man you are ? 
First, therefore, overhaul theology ! 
Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, 
Must find believing every whit as hard : 
And if I do not frankly say as much, 
The ugly consequence is clear enough. 

Now wait, my friend : well, I do not believe — 
If you'll accept no faitli that is not fixed. 
Absolute and exclusive, as you say. 
You're wrong — I mean to prove it in due time. 
Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie 
I could not, cannot soh'e, nor ever shall. 
So give up hope accordingly to solve — 
(To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas then 
AVith both of us. Though in unlike degree, 
Missing full credence — overboard with them ! 
I mean to meet you on your own premise : 
Good, there go mine in company with yours ! 

And now what are we ? unbelievers both, 
Calm and complete, determinately fixed 
To-day, to-morrow, and forever, pray ? 
You'll guarantee me that ? Not so, I think ! 
In no wise ! all we've gained is, that belief, 
As unbelief before, shakes us by fits. 
Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's 
The gain ? how can we guard our unbelief, 
Make it bear fruit to us ? — the problem here. 
Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, 
A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, 
A chorus-ending from Euripides, — 
And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears 
As old and new at once as nature's self, 
To rap and knock and enter in our soul, 
Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, 
Round the ancient idol, on his base again, — 
The grand Perhaps ! We look on helplessly. 
There the old misgivings, crooked questions are — 
This good God, — what he could do, if he would. 
Would, if he could — then must have done long since 
If so, when, where, and how ? some way must be, — 



214 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



Once feel about, and soon or late yon hit 
Some sense, in wliicli it might be, after all. 
Why not " The Way, the Truth, the Life " ? 



That way 



Over the mountain, which who stands upon 

Is apt to doubt if it be indeed a road ; 

While if he views it from the waste itself. 

Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, 

Not vague, mistakable ! wliat's a break or two 

Seen from the unbroken desert either side ? 

And then (to bring in fresh philosoj-jy) 

What if the breaks themselves should prove at last 

The most consummate of contrivances 

To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith ? 

And so we stumble at truth's very test ! 

All we have gained then by our unbelief 

Is a life of doubt diversified by faith. 

For one of faith diversified by dcmbt : 

W^e called the chess-board white, — we call it black. 

" Well," you rejoin, " the end's no worse, at least : 
We've reason for both colors on the board : 
Why not confess then, where I drop the faith 
And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you ? " 

Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, 
And both things even, — faith and unbelief 
Left to a man's choice, — we'll proceed a step, 
Returning to our image, which I like. 

A n)an's choice, yes — but a cabin passenger's — 
The man made for the special life o' the world — 
Do you forget him ? I remember though ! 
Consult our ship's conditions and you find 
One and but one choice suitable to all ; 
"The choice, that you unluckily prefer, 
Turning things topsy-turvy — they or it 
Going to the ground"! Belief or unbelief 
Bears upon life, determines its whole course, 
Begins at its beginning. See the world 
Such as it is, — you made it not, nor I ; 
I mean to tak(; it as it is, — and you. 
Not so you'll take it, — though you get naught else. 
I know' the special kind of life I like, 
What suits the most my idiosyncrasj'. 
Brings out the best of me and bears'me fruit 
In power, peace, pleasantness, and length of days. 
I find that positive belief does this 
For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. 
— For you, it does, however ? — that, we'll try I 
'Tis clear, I cannot lead my life, at least, 
Induce the world to let me peaceably, 
Without declaring at the outset, " Friends, 
I absolutely ajid ])er('mptorily 
B(dieve ! " — I say, faith is my waking life : 
One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, 
We know, but waking's the main point witli us, 
And my provision's for life's waking part. 



BISHOP BLOUG RAM'S APOLOGY. 215 



Accordinjjly, T iise heart, head, and hand 

All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends ; 

And when night overtakes me, down I lie, 

Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it. 

The sooner the better, to begin afresh. 

AVhat's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith ? 

You, the philosopher, that disbelieve. 

That recognize the night, give dreams their weight — 

To be consistent you should keep your bed. 

Abstain from healthy acts that jirove you man, 

For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares ! 

And certainly at night jou'll sleep and dreara, 

Live through the day and bustle as you please. 

And so you live to sleep as I to wake, 

To unbelieve as I to still believe ? 

Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you 

Bed-ridden, — and its good things come to me. 

Its estimation, which is half the fight, 

Tliat's the lirst-cabln comfort I secure : 

The next . . . but yovi perceive with half an eye ! 

Coine, come, it's best believing, if we may ; 

You can't but own that ! 

Next, concede again 
If once we choose belief, on all accounts 
We can't be too decisive in our faith. 
Conclusive and exclusive in its terms. 
To suit the world which gives us the good things. 
In every man's career are certain points 
Whereon he dares not be indifferent ; 
The world detects him clearly, if he dare, 
As hafiied at the game, and losing life. 
He may care little or he may care much 
For riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose, 
Since various theories of life and life's 
Success are extant which might easily 
Comport with either estimate of these ; 
And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, 
Labor or quiet, is not judged a fool 
Because his fellow would choose otherwise : 
We let him choose upon his own account 
So long as he's consistent with his choice. 
But certain points, left wholly to himself, 
When once a man has arbitrated on. 
We say he must succeed there or go hang. 
Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most 
Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need — 
For he can't wed twice Then, he must avouch, 
Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, 
The form of faith his conscience holds the best, 
Whate'er the process of conviction was : 
For nothing can compensate his mistake 
On such a point, the man himself being judge : 
He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. 

Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith 
I happened to be born in — which to teach 
Was given me as I grew up, on all hands. 
As best and readiest means of living by ; 



216 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



The same on examination being proved 

The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise 

And absolute form of faith in the whole world — 

Accordingly, most potent of all forms 

For working on the world. Observe, my friend ! 

Such as you know me, I am free to say, 

In these hard latter days which hamper one, 

Myself— by no immoderate exercise 

Of intellect and learning, but the tact 

To let external forces work for me, 

— Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread ; 

Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, 

Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world 

And make my life an ease and ]oj and pride ; 

It does so, — which for me's a great point gained, 

Who have a soul and body that exact 

A comfortable care in many ways. 

There's power in me and will to dominate 

Which I must exercise, they hurt me else : 

In many ways I need mankind's respect, 

Obedience, and the love that's born of fear : 

While at tlie same time, there's a taste I have, 

A toy of soul, a titillating thing. 

Refuses to digest these dainties crude. 

The naked life is gross till clothed upon : 

I must take what men offer, with a grace 

As though I would not, could I help it, take 1 

An uniform I wear though over-rich — 

Something imposed on me, no choice of mine ; 

No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake 

And despicable therefore ! now folks kneel 

And kiss my hand — of course the Church's hand. 

Thus I am made, thus life is best for me. 

And thus that it should be I have procured ; 

And thus it could not be another way, 

I venture to imagine. 

You'll reply, 
So far my choice, no doubt, is a success ; 
But were I made of better elements, 
With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, 
I hardly would account the thing success 
Though it did all for me I say. 

But, friend, 
We speak of what is ; not of what might be. 
And how 'twere better if 'twere otherwise 
I am the man you see here plain enough : 
Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives I 
Suppose I own at once to tail and claws ; 
The tailless man exceeds me : but being tailed 
I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes 
To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. 
My business is not to remake myself, 
But make the absolute best of v»-hat God made. 
Or — our first simile — though j'ou i>rove me doomed 
To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole. 
The sheeivjien or the pig-sty, I should strive 
To make what use of each were possible ; 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 217 

And as this cahin gats upholstery, 

That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. 

But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast 
I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes 
Enumerated so complacently, 
On the mere ground that you forsooth can find 
In this particular life I choose to lead 
Ko fit provision for them. Can you not ? 
Say you, my fault is I address myself 
To grosser estimators than should judge ? 
And that's no way of holding up the soul, 
"Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows 
One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools' — 
Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. 
I pine among my million imbeciles 
(You think) aware some dozen men of sense 
Eye me and know me, whether I believe 
In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, 
And am a fool, or disbelieve in her 
And am a knave, — approve in neither case, 
AVithhold their voices though I look their way : 
Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end 
(The thing they gave at Florence — what's its name ?) 
\Vhile the mad houseful 's plaudits near out-bang 
His orchestra of salt-box, tongs, and bones. 
He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths 
Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. 

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here — 
That even your prime men who appraise their kind 
Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, 
See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, 
Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street 
Sixty the minute : what's to note in that ? 
You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack ; 
Him you must watch — he's sure to fall, yet stands ! 
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. 
The honest thief, the tender murderer, 
The superstitious atheist, demirep 
That loves and saves her soul in new French books — 
We watch while these in equilibrium keep 
The giddy line midway: one step aside. 
They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line 
Before your sages. — just the men to shrink 
From the gross weights., coarse scales, and labels broad 
You off^er their refinement. Fool, or knave ? 
Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave 
When there's a thousand diamond weights between ? 
So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find, 
Profess themselves indignant, scandalized 
At thus being held unable to explain 
How a superior man who disbelieves 
May not believe as well : that's Schelling's way ! 
It's through my coming in the tail of time, 
Nicking the minute with a liai)py tact. 
Had I been born three hundred years ago 

They'd say, " What's strange ? Blougram of course believes ; " 
And, seventy years since, " disbelieves of course." 



218 BlSnOP BLOU GRAM'S APOLOGY. 



But now, " He may believe ; and yet, and yet 

How can he ? " All eyes turn with interest. 

Whereas, step off the line on either side — 

You, for exanjple, clever to a fault, 

The rough and ready man who write apace, 

Kead somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less — 

Yon disbelieve ! Who wonders and who cares ? 

Lord So-and-so — his coat bedropped with wax, 

All Peter's chains about his waist, his back 

Brave with the needlework of Noodledom — 

Believes ! Again, who wonders and who cares ? 

But I, the man of sense and learning too, 

The able to think yet act, the this, the that, 

I, to believe at this late time of daj- ! 

Enough ; you see, I need not fear contempt. 

— Except it's yours ! Admire me as these may, 
You don't. But whom at least do you admire ? 
Present your own perfection, your ideal, 
Your luittern man for a minute — oh, make haste ! 
Is it Napoleon you would have us grow ? 
Concede the means ; allow his head and hand 
(A large concession, clever as you are). 
Good ! In our common ]irimal element 
Of unbelief (we can't believe, you know — 
We're still at that admission, recollect !) 
Where do you find — apart from, towering o'er 
The secondary temporarj^ aims 
Which satisfy the gross taste you despise — 
Where do you find his star? — his crazy trust 
God knows through what or in what ? it's alive 
And shines and leads him, and that's all we want. 
Have we aught in our sober night shall point 
Such ends as his were, and direct the means 
Of working out our purpose straight as his, 
Nor bring a moment's trouble on success 
With after-care to justify the same ? 
— Be a Napoleon and yet disbelieve — 
Why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away ! 
What's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare 
With comfort to yourself blow millions up? 
We neither of us see it ! we do see 
The blown-up millions — spatter of their brains 
And writhing of their b nvels and so forth, 
In that bewildering entanglement 
Of horrible eventualities 
Past calculation to the end of time ! 
Can I unstake for some clear word of God 
(Which were my amj^le warrant for it all) 
His puiT of hazy instinct, idle talk, 
"The State, that's I," quack-nonsense about crowns, 
And (when one beats the man to his last hold) 
A vague idea of setting things to rights. 
Policing people efficaciously. 
More to their profit, most of all to his own ; 
The whole to end that dismallest of ends 
By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, 
And resurrection of tlie old rd(ibvo.f 
Would I, who hojw to live a dozen years. 
Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such ? 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 219 



No : for, concede me but the merest chauce 

Doubt may be wrong — there's judgment, life to come ! 

With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right ? 

This present life is all ? — you offer me 

Its ck)zen noisy j^ears, without a chance 

That wedding an arch-iluchess, wearing lace, 

And getting called by divers new-coined names, 

Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine. 

Sleep, read, and chat in quiet as I like ! 

Therefore I will not. 

Take another case, 
Fit up the cabin yet another way. 
What say you to the poets ? shall we write 
Hamlet, Othello — make the world our own. 
Without a risk to run of either sort ? 
I can't ! — to put the strongest reason first. 
" But try," you urge, " the trying shall suffice ; 
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life : 
Try to be Shakspeare, leave the rest to fate ! " 
Spare \ny self-knowledge —there's no fooling me ! 
If I prefer remaining my poor self, 
I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. 
If I'm a Shakspeare, let the well alone ; 
Why should I try to be what now I am ? 
If I'm no Shakspeare, as too probable, — 
His power and consciousness and self-delight 
And all we want in common, shall I find — 
Trying forever? while on points of taste 
Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I 
Are dowered alike — I'll ask you, I or he, 
Which in our two lives realizes most? 
Much, he imagined : somewhat, I nossess. 
He had the imagination ; stick to that ! 
Let him say, " In the face of my soul's works 
Your world is worthless and I touch it not 
Lest I should wrong them " — I'll withdraw my plea. 
But does he say so ? look upon his life ! 
Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. 
He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces 
To build the trimmest house in Stratford town ; 
Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, 
Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute ; 
Enjoys a show, respects the puppets too, 
And none more, had he seen its entry once, 
Than " Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." 
Why then should I who play that personage, 
The very Pandulph Shakspeare's fancy made, 
Be told that had the poet chanced to start 
From where I stand now (some degree like mine 
Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) 
He would have run the whole race back, forsooth. 
And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays ? 
Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best ! 
Did Shakspeare live, he could but sit at home 
And get himself in dreams the Vatican, 
Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls. 
And English books, none equal to his own. 
Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). 



220 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



— Terni's fall, Naples' bay, and Gothard's top — 

Ell, friend ? I could not fancy one of these ; 

But, as I ]ionr this claret, there they are : 

I've gained theni — crossed St. GoTliard last July 

With ten mules to the carriage and a bed 

Slung inside ; is my hap the \vorse for that? 

We want tlie same things, Shakspeare and myself. 

And what I want, I have : he, gifted more, 

Could fancy he too had it when he liked, 

But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, 

He would not have it also in my sense. 

We play one game ; I send the ball aloft 

No less adroitly that of fifty strokes 

Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high 

Which sends them back to me : 1 wisli and get. 

He struck balls higher and with better skill. 

But at a poor fence level with his head. 

And hit — his Stratford house, a coat of arras. 

Successful dealings in his grain and wool : 

While I receive heaven's incense in my nose, 

And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. 

Ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game ? 

Believe — and our whole argument breaks up. 
Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat ; 
Only, we can't command it ; lire and life 
Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree : 
And be it a n^ad dream or God's very breath, 
The fact's the same, — belief's tire, once in us. 
Makes of all else mere stuif to show itself : 
We penetrate our life with such a glow 
As lire lends wood and iron — this turns steel, 
That burns to ash — all's one. fire proves its power 
For good or ill, since men call Hare sncccvss. 
But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. 
Light one in me, I'll tind it food enough ! 
Why, to be Luther — that's a life to lead. 
Incomparably better than my own. 
He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says. 
Sets up God's rule again by simple means. 
Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. 
He flared out in the flaring of mankind ; 
Such Luther's luck was : how shall such be mine ? 
If he succeeded, nothing's left to do : 
And if he did not altogether — well, 
Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be 
I might be also. r>ut to what result ? 
He looks upon no future : Luther did. 
What can I gain on the denying side? 
Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, 
Head the text right, emancipate the world — 
The emancipated world enjoys itself 
With scarce a thank-yon : Blougram told it first 
It could not owe a farthing, — not to him 
;More than Saint Paul ! 'twould pntss its pay, you think? 
Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance 
Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run — 
For what gain ? not for TjUtlier's, who s(!cured 
A real heaven in his heart througlioiit his life, 
Supposing death a little altered things. 



BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 221 



" Ay, l)Ut since really you lack faith," you cry, 
" You run the same risk really on all sides, 
In cool indiiference as bold uuLelief. 
As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. 
It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, 
No more available to do faith's work 
Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none ! " 

Softly, ray friend ! I must dispute that point. 
Once own the use of faith, I"ll find you faith. 
We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith : 
I show you doubr, to ]")rove that faith exists. 
The more of doubt, the stronger faitb, I say, 
If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does ? 
By life and man's free will, G-od gave for that ! 
To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice : 
That's our oae act, the previous work's his own. 
You criticise the soil ? it reared this tree — 
This broad life and whatever fruit it bears ! 
"Wljat matter though I doubt at every pore, 
Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, 
Doubts in the trivial work of every dayl 
Doubts at tbe very bases of my soial 
In tbe grand moments when she probes herself — 
If finally T bave a life to sbow, 
The tiling I did, l)rought out in evidence 
Against the thing done to me underground 
By hell and all its brood, for aught I know ? 
I say, whence sjirang this ? shows it faith, or doubt ? 
All's doubt in me ; where's break of faith in this? 
It is the idea, tlie feeling and tbe love, 
God means mankind should strive for and show forth 
"Whatever be the process to that end, — 
And not historic knowledge, logic sound, 
And metaphysical acumen, sure ! 

" What think ye of Christ," friend ? when all's done and said, 
Like you this Christianity, or not ? 
It may be false, but will you wish it true ? 
Has it your vote to be so if it can ? 
Trust you an instinct silenced long ago 
That will break silence and enjoin you love 
What mortified philosophy is hoarse, 
And all in vain, with bidding you despise? 
If you desire faitb — then you've faith enough : 
What else seeks God — nay, what else seek ourselves? 
You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, 
On hearsay : it's a favorable one : 
" But still (you add), " there was no such good man, 
Because of contradiction in the facts. 
One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, 
Tliis Blougram ; yet tbroughout the tales of him 
I see he figures as an Englisbman." 
Well, the two things are reconcilable. 
But would I rather you discovered that. 
Subjoining — " Still, what matter though they be ? 
Blougram concerns me naught, born here or itliere." 

Pure faith indeed — you know not what you ask ! 
Naked belief in God the Omnij;)oteut, 



222 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much 
The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 
It were the seeing him, no tlesh shall dare. 
Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth : 
I say it's meant to hide him all it can. 
And that's what all the blessed evil's for. 
Its use in Time is to environ us, 
Our breath, our drop of dew% with shield enough 
Against that sight till we can bear its stress. 
Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain 
And lidless e3'e and disemprisoned heart 
Less certainly would wither up at once 
Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. 
But time and earth case-harden us to live ; 
The feeblest sense is trusted most ; the child 
Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, 
Plays on, and grows to be a man like us 
With me, faith means perpetual unlielief 
Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot 
Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. 
Or, if that's too ambitious, — here's my box — 
I need the excitation of a pinch 
Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose 
Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never coraes. 
" Leave it in peace ! " advise the simple folk : 
Make it aware of peace by itching-tits, 
Say I — let doubt occasion still more faith ! 

You'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, 
In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. 
How you'd exult if I could put 3'ou back 
Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, 
Geology, ethnology, what not 
(Greek endings, each the little passing-bell 
That signifies some faith's about to die). 
And set you square with Genesis again ! 
When such a traveller told you his last news, 
He saw the ark a-top of Ararat 
But did not climb there since "twas getting dusk 
And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot ! 
How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, 
How act ? As other people felt and did . 
With soul more blank than this decanter's knob, 
Believe — and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate 
Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be ! 

No, when the fight begins within himself, 
A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, 
Satan looks up between ins feet — both tug — 
He's left, himself, i' the middle : the soul wakes 
And grows. Prolong that battle through his life ! 
Never leave growing till the life to come ! 
Here we've got callous to the Virgin's winks 
That used to puzzle ]ieople wholesomely : 
Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. 
What are the laws of nature, not to bend 
If the Church bid them ? — brother Newman asks. 
Up with the Immaculate Concejition. then — 
On to the rack with faith ! — is my advice. 



BISHOP BLOU GRAM'S APOLOGY. 228 



Will not that hurrj^ us upon our knees, 

Knocking our breasts, " It can't be — yet it shall ! 

Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope ? 

Low things confound the high things ! " and so forth. 

That's better than acquitting God with grace, 

As some folks do. He's tried — no case is proved, 

Philosophy is lenient — He may go ! 

You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete 
But men believe still : ay, but who and where ? 
King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet 
The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes ; 
But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint 
Believes God watches him continually, 
As he believes in lire that it will burn. 
Or rain that it will drench him ? Break fire's law, 
Sin against rain, although the penalty 
Be ji;st a singe or soaking ? " No," he smiles ; 
*' Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." 

The sum of all is —yes, my doubt is great, 
My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. 
I iiave read much, thought much, experienced mucbj 
Yet woidd die rather than avow my fear 
The Naples' liquefaction may be false. 
When set to happen by the palace-clock 
According to the clouds or diuner-tirae. 
I hear you recommend, I might at least 
Eliminate, decrassify my faith 
Since I adopt it ; keeping what I must 
And leaving what I can — such points as this. 
I won't — tliat is, I can't throw one away. 
Supposing there's no truth in what I hold 
About the need of trial to man's faith, 
Still, when you bid me purify the same, 
To such a process I discern no end. 
Clearing off one excrescence to see two. 
There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, 
That meets the knife : I cut and cut again ! 
First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last 
But Fichte's clever cut at God himself ? 
Experimentalize on sacred things ! 
I trust nor band nor eye nor heart nor brain 
To stop betimes : they all get drunk alike. 
The first step, I am master not to take. 

You'd find the cutting-process to your taste 
As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, 
Nor see more danger in it, — you retort. 
Your taste's worth mine ; but my taste proves more wise 
When we consider that the steadfast hold 
On the extreme end of the chain of faith 
Gives all the advantage, makes the difference 
With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule : 
We are their lords, or they are free of us, 
Just as we tighten or relax our hold. 
So, other matters equal, we'll revert 
To the first problem — which, if solved my way 
And thrown into the balance, turns the scale — 



224 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



Hew we may lead a comfortable life, 



Of course you are retiiarking all this time 
How narrowly and grossly 1 view life, 
Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule 
The masses, and regard comi)lacently 
" The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. 
I act for, talk for, live for this world now, 
As this world prizes action, life, and talk : 
No prejudice to what next world may prove, 
Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge 
To observe then, is that I observe these now, 
Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. 
Let us concede (gratuitously though) 
Next life relieves the soul of body, yields 
Pure spiritual enjoyment : well, my friend, 
Why lose this lite i' the mean time, since its use 
May be to make the next life more intense ? 

Do you know, I have often had a dream 
(Work it up in your next month's article) 
Of man's poor spirit in its jirogvess, still 
Losing true life forever and a day 
Through ever trying to be and ever being — 
In thee volution of successive spheres — 
Before its actual sphere and place of life. 
Half way into the next, which having reached, 
It shoots with corresponding foolery 
Half way into the next still, on and off ! 
As when a traveller, bound from North to South, 
Scouts fur in Russia ; what's its use in France? 
In France spurns flannel ; where's its need in Spain? 
In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers ! 
Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, 
A superfluity at Tiinbuctoo. 

When, through his journey, was the fool at ease ? 
I'm at ease now, friend ; worldly in this world, 
I take and like its way of life ; I think 
My brothers, who administer the means. 
Live better for my comfort — that's gO(Kl too ; 
And God, if he pronounce upon such life, 
Api)roves my service, which is better still. 
If he keep silence, — why, for you or me 
Or that brute-beast puUed-upin to-day's "Times," 
What odds is't, save to ourselves, what life we lead? 

You meet me at this issue : you declare, — 
All special-pleading done with, truth is truth, 
And justifies itself by undioamed ways. 
You (lon't fear but it's better, if we doubt, 
To say so, act up to our truth perceived 
However feebly. Do then, —act away ! 
'Tis there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts 
Is, both of us agree, our chief concern : 
And how you'll act is what I fain would see 
If, like the candid person ycHi api)ear. 
You dare to make the most of your life's scheme 
As I of mine, live up to its full law 



BISHOP BLOUGR.UrS APOLOGY. 225 



Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. 
Put natural religion to the test 
You've just demolislied the revealed with —quick, 
Down to the root of all that checks your will, 
All prohibition to lie, kill, and thieve. 
Or e\"en to be an atheistic priest ! 
Suppose a pricking to iucontiuence — 
Philosophers deduce you chastity 
Or shame, from just the fact that at the first 
Whoso embraced a woman in the field. 
Threw club down and forewent his brains beside, 
So. stood a ready victim in the reach 
Of any brother-savage, club in hand ; 
Hence saw the use of going out of sight 
In wood or cave to prosecute his loves : 
I read this in a French book t'other day. 
Does law so anah^zed coerce jou much ? 
Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end. 
But you who reach where the first thread begins. 
You'll soon cut that ! — which means you can, but won't 
Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out, 
You dare not set aside, you can't tell why, 
But there they are, and so you let them rule- 
Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, 
A liar, conscious coward and h%^pocrite, 
Without the good the slave expects to get, 
In case he has a master after all ! 
You own your instincts ? why, what else do I, 
Who want, am made for, and must have a God 
Ere I can be aught, do aught ? — no mere name 
Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, 
To wit, a relation from that thing to me, 
Touching from head to foot — which touch I feel, 
And with it take the rest, this life of ours ! 
I live my life here : yours you dare not live. 

— Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) 
Disfigure such a life and call it names. 
While, to your mind, remains another way 
For simple men : knowledge and power have rights. 
But ignorance and weakness have rights too. 
There needs no crucial effort to find truth 
If here or there or anywhere about : 
We ought to turn each side, try hard and see. 
And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least 
The right, hy one laborious proof the more. 
To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. 
Men are not angels, neither are they brutes : 
Something we may see, all we cannot see. 
What need of lying? I say, I see all, 
And swear to each detail the most minute 
In what I think a Pan's face — you, mere cloud : 
I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, 
For fear, if once I drop the emphasis. 
Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. 
You take the simple life — ready to see. 
Willing to see (for no cloud's worth a face) — 
And leaving quiet what no strength can move. 
And which, who bids yoxx move ? who has the right ? 



226 BJSHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 



I bid you ; hut you are God's slieep, not mine : 
" Pastor est tui JJomimis." You find 
In this the pleasant jiasture of our life 
Much you may eat witliout the least offence, 
Much you don't eat because your maw objects, 
Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock 
Open great eyes at you, and even butt, 
And thereupon you like your mates so well 
You cannot please yourself, offending them ; 
Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, 
You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats 
And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears 
Restrain you, real checks since you find them so ; 
Sometimes you ])lease yourself and nothing checks : 
And thus you graze through life with not one lie, 
And like it best. 

But do you, in truth's name ? 
If so, you beat — which means you are not I — 
Wlio needs must make earth mine and feed my fill 
Not simply unbulted at, unbickered with. 
But motioned to the velvet of the sward 
By those obsequious wethers' verj' selves. 
Look at me, sir ; my age is double yours : 
At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, 
"What now I should be — as, permit the word, . 
I pretty well imagine your whole range 
And stretch of tether twenty years to come. 
We have both minds and bodies nnich alike : 
In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, 
My daily bread, my influence and my state ? 
You're young, I'm old. you must be old one day ; 
Will you find then, as I do hour by hour. 
Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls 
From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch — 
Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring — 
With much beside yon know or may conceive ? 
Suppose we die to-night : well, here am I, 
Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me. 
While writing all the same mj' articles 
On music, poetry, the fictile vase 
Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek. 
But you — the highest honor in your life. 
The "thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, 
Is — dining here and drinking this last glass 
I pour you out in sight of amity 
Before we part forever. Of your power 
And social influence, worldly worth in short, 
Jiulge what's my estimation by the fact — 
I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, 
Hint secrecy on one of all these words ! 
You're shrewd and know that should you publish one 
"The world would brand the lie — my enemies first. 
Who'd sneer — "the bishop's an arch-hypocrite 
And knave perha|>s, but not so frank a fool." 
Whereas I should not dare for both my ears 
Breathe one such sylhible, smile one such smile, 
Before the chaplain wlio reflects myself — 
My shade's so much more pptept than your flesh. 



BISHOP BLOUGHAM'S APOLOGY. 227 

What's your reward, self-abnegatin,2: friend ? 

Stood you confessed of those exceptional 

And privileged great natures that dwarf mine — 

A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, 

A poet just about to print his ode, 

A statesman with a scheme to stop tliis war, 

An artist whose religion is his art — 

I sh(nild have nothing to object : such men 

Carry the fire, all things grow warm to tliem, 

Their drugget's worth my purple, they heat me. 

But you — you're just as little those as I — 

You, Gigadibs, who, thirt}^ years of age. 

Write statedly for Blackwood's Magazine, 

Believe you see two points in Hamlet's soul 

Unseized by the Germans yet — which view you'll print — 

Meantime the best you have to show being still 

That lively lightsome article we took 

Almost for the true Dickens, — what's its name ? 

"The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel life 

Limned after dark ! " it made me laugh, I know, 

And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. 

— Success I recognize and compliment, 

And therefore give you, if you chouse, three words 

(The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) 

Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, 

Will get you. prompt as at my eyebrow's wink, 

Such ternas as never you aspired to get 

In all our own reviews and some not ours. 

Go write your lively sketches ! be the first 

" Blougram, or the Eccentric Confidence " — 

Or better simply say, " The Outward-ffound." 

Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth 

As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad 

About me on the church-door opposite. 

You will not wait for that experience though, 

I fancy, howsoever you decide. 

To discontinue — not detesting, not 

Defaming, but at least — despising me ! 



Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour 
Sylvester Blougram, styled inpcrtihvs 
Epi.scopiis, nee ))on — (the deuce knows what 
It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) 
With Gigadibs the literary man, 

Who played Avith spoons, explored his plate's design, 
And ranged the olive-stones about its filge, 
While the great bishop rolled him out a mind 
Long rumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. 

For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. 
The other portion, as he shaped it tlius 
For argumentatory purposes, 
He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. 
Some arbitrary accidental thoughts 
That crossed his mind, amusing because new. 
He chose to represent as fixtures there. 
Invariable convictions (such they seemed 



228 MR. SLUDGE, '"THE MEDIUM. 



Beside his interlocutor's loose cards 

Flung daily down, and not the same wa}-^ twice) 

While certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongue 

Is never bold to utter in their truth 

Because styled hell-deep ('tis an old mistake 

To place hell at the bottom of the earth) 

He ignored these, — not having in readiness 

Their nomenclature and philosophy : 

He said true things, hut called them by wrong names. 

" On the whole," he thought, " I justify myself 

On every point where cavillers like this 

Oppugn my life : he tries one kind of fence, 

I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. 

He's on the ground : if ground should break away 

I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet 

Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. 

His ground was over mine antl broke the first : 

So, let him sit with me this many a year ! " 

He did not sit five minutes. Just a week 
Suflficed his sudden healthy vehemence. 
Something had struck him in the " Outwai'd-hound " 
Another way tlian Blougram's purpose was : 
And having bought, not cabin-furniture 
But settler's implements (enough for three) 
And started for Austi-alia — there, I hope, 
By this time he has tested his first plough, 
And studied his last chapter of Saint John. 



MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 

NoAV, don't, sir ! Don't expose me ! Just this once ! 

This was the first and only time, I'll swear, — 

Look at me, — see, I kneel, — the only time, 

I swear, I ever cheated, — yes, by the soul 

Of Her who hears — (your sainted mother, sir !) 

All, except this last accident, was truth — 

This little kind of slip ! — and even this. 

It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne 

(I took it for Catawba, you're so kind). 

Which put the folly iu my head ! 

"Get up?" 
You still inflict on me that terrible face ? 
You show no mercy ? — Not for Her dear sake, 
The sainted spirit's, wdiose soft breath even now 
Blows on my cheek — (don't you feel something, sir?) 
You'll tell? 

Go tell, tlien ! Who the Devil cares 
What such a rowdy chooses to . . . 

Aie — aie — ale ! 
Please, sir ! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir I 
Ch — c\\ ! 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM'' 229 



Well, sir, I hope you've done it now ! 

Lord ! I little thought, sir, yesterday, 
When your departed mother spoke those words 

Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, 

You gave me — (very kind it was of you) 

Tliese shirt-studs — (better take them back again, 

Please, sir) — yes, little did I think so soon 

A trifle of trick, all through a glass too nuich 

Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends 

Into an angry geutleman ! 

Though, 'twas wrong. 

1 don't contest the point ; your auger's just : 
Whatever put such folly in my head, 

I know 'twas wicked of me. "There's a thick 

Dusk undeveloped spirit (I've observed) 

Owes me a grudge — a negro's, I should say, 

Or else an Irish emigrant's ; yourself 

Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir, 

When we had summoned Franklin to clear up 

A point about those shares i' the telegraph : 

Ay, and he swore ... or might it be Tom Paine ? . . . 

Thumping the tal)le close by where I crouched. 

He'd do me soon a mischief : that's come true ! 

Why, now your face clears ! I was sure it would ! 

Then, this one time . . . don't take your hand av/ay, 

Through j'ours I surely kiss your mother's hand . . . 

Yoii'll promise to forgive me ? — or, at least, 

Tell nobody of this ? Consider, sir ! 

What harm can mercy do ? Would but the shade 

Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe 

A rap or tip ! What bit of paper's here ? 

Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, 

Make the least sign, she urges on her child 

Forgiveness ? There now ! Eh ? Oh ! 'Twas your foot. 

And not a natural creak, sir ? 

Answer, then ! 
Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say "■ thrice ! " 
All to no use ? No sort of hope for me ? 
It's all to post to Greeley's newspaper ? 

What ? If I told you all about the tricks ? 

Upon my soul ! — the whole truth, and naught else, 

And how there's been some falsehood — for your part, 

Will you engage to pay my passage out. 

And hold your tongue until I'm safe on board ? 

England's the place, not Boston — no offence ! 

I see what makes j^ou hesitate : don't fear ! 

I mean to change my trade and cheat no more, 

Yes, this time really it's upon my soul ! 

Be ray salvation ! —under heaven, of course. 

I'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do. 

A trifle, though, to start with ! We'll refer 

The question to this table ? 

How you're changed ! 
Then split the difference ; thirty more, we'll say. 
Ay, but you leave my presents ! Else I'll swear 



230 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:^ 

'Twas all tlirough those : you wanted yours again, 

So, picked a quarrel with lue, to get them back ! 

Tread on a worua, it turns, sir ! If I turn, 

Your fault ! 'Tis you'll have forced me ! Who's obliged 

To give up life yet try no self-defence ? 

At all events, I'll run the risk. Eh ? 

Done ! 
May I sit, sir ? This dear old table, now ! 
Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar ! 
I've b'.'en so happy with you ! Nice stuffed chairs, 
And sympathetic sideboards , what an end 
To all the instructive evenings ! (It's alight.) 
Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said. 
Here goes, — but keep your temper, or I'll scream ! 

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol ! 

You see, sir, it's your own fault more than mine ; 

It's all your fault, you curious gentlefolk ! 

You're i)rigs, — excuse me, — like to look so spry, 

So clever, while you cling by half a claw 

To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, 

Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch 

Because you chose it, so it nmst be safe. 

Oh, otherwise you're sliarp enough ! You spy 

Who slips, who slides, who holds In- help of wing, 

Wanting real foothold, — who can't keep upright 

On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you : 

There s no outwitting you respecting him ! 

For instance, men love money — that, you know — 

And what men do to gain it : well, suppose 

A poor lad, say a help's son in your house, 

Listening at keyholes, hears the company 

Talk grand of dollars, V-nores, and so forth, 

How hai'd they are to get, how good to hold. 

How much they buy, — if, suddenly, in pops he — 

" /'ve got a Y-note ! " — what do you say to him ? 

What's your tirst word which follows your last kick ? 

" Where did you steal it, rascal ? " That's because 

He finds you,' fain would fool you, off your ]>erch, 

Not on the sjiecial piece of nonsense, sir, 

Elected your parade-ground : let him try 

Lies to the end of the list, — " He picked it up, 

His cousin died and left it him by will, 

The President flung it to him, riding by. 

An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair, 

He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched, 

He dug up clay, and out of clay made gold " — 

How would you treat such possibilities ? 

Would not you, prompt, investigate the case 

With cow-h'ide ? " Lies, lies, li(!S," you'd shout : and why ? 

Which of the stories might not prove mere truth ? 

This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin ! 

Let's see, now, give him me to speak for him ! 

How many of your rare philosophers, 

In plaguy books I've had to dip into, 

Believedgold could be made thus, saw it made, 

And made it? Oh, with such philosophers 

You're on your best behavior ! While the lad — 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUMS 231 



"SVirli him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods, 
Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize : 
In his case, you hear, judge, and execute. 
All in a breath : so would most men of sense. 

But let the same lad hear you talk as grand 

At the same keyhole, you and company. 

Of signs and wonders, the invisible world ; 

Ho'.v wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief 

More than our vulgarest credulity ; 

How good men have desired to see a ghost, 

"What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did, 

Mother Goose thought, and tiddle-diddle-dee : — 

If he then break in with, " Sir, / saw a ghost ! " 

Ah, the ways change ! He finds you perched and prim ; 

It's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be : 

There's no talk now of cow-hide. " Tell it out ! 

Don't fear us ! Take your time and recollect ! 

Sit down first ; try a glass of wine, my hoy ! 

And, David, (is not that your Christian name?) 

Of all things, should this' happen twice, — it may, — 

Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know ! " 

Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that, 

Break down in the other, as beginners will ? 

All's candor, all's considerateness, — " Xo haste ! 

Pause and collect yourself ! We understand ! 

That's the bad memor3", or the natural shock, 

Or the unexplained pZienome?ia .'" 

Egad, 
The boy takes heart of grace ; finds, never fear, 
The readiest way to ope your own heart wide, 
Show — what I call your peacock-perch, pet post 
To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon ! 
" Just as you thought, much as you might expect ! 
Tliere be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," . . 
And so on. Shall not David take the hint. 
Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate? 
If he ruflle a feather,"^ it's " Gently, patiently ! 
Manifestations are so weak at first ! 
Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short, 
Cures with a vengeance ! " 

There, sir, that's your style ! 
You and your boy — such pains bestowed on'him. 
Or any headpiece of the average worth. 
To teach, say, Greek, would pei-fect him apace, 
Make him a Person (" Porson ? " thank you, sir !) 
Much more, proficient in the art of lies ' 
You never leave the lesson ! Fire alight. 
Catch you permirtini? it to die ! You've friends ; 
There's no withholding knowledge, — least from those 
Apt to look elsewhere for their soul's supply : 
Why should not you parade yotir lawful prize ? 
Who finds a picture, digs a medal up. 
Hits on a first edition, — he henceforth 
Gives it his name, grows notable : how much more 
Who ferrets out a " medium " ? " David's yours, 
You highly favored man ? Then, pity souls 



232 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM. 



Less privileged ! Allow us share your luck ! " 
So, David holds the circle, rules the roast, 
Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball, 
Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps, 
As the case may be. 

Now mark ! To be precise, — 
Though I say, " lies " all these, at this first stage, 
'Tis just for science' sake : I call such grubs 
By the name of what they'll turn to, dVagonilies. 
Strictly, it's what good people style untruth ; 
But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing : 
It's fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work, — 
What never meant to be so \qv\ bad, — 
The knack of story-telling, brightening up 
Each dull old bit of fact that drops itsshine. 
One does see somewhat when one shuts one's ej^es, 
If only spots and streaks ; tables do tip 
In the oddest way of themselves : and pens, good Lord, 
Who knows if you drive them or they drive you? 
'Tis but a foot in the water and oiit again ; 
Not that duck-under which decides j'our dive. 
Note this, for it's important : listen why. 

I'll prove, you push on David till he dives 

And ends the shivering. Here's your circle, now : 

Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host, 

Turn up tlieir eyes, and cry, as you expect, 

" Lord, who'd have thought it ! " But there's always one 

Looks wise, compassionaiely smiles, submits 

" Of your veracity no kind of doubt, 

But — do you feel so certain of that boj-'s? 

Ileallj', I wonder ! I confess myself 

More chary of my faith ! " That's galling, sir I 

"What ! he the investigator, he the sage, 

AVhen all's done ? Then, you just have shut your eyes, 

Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole, 

You ! Terrible were such catastrophe ! 

So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again, 

And doubled besides ; oi«#e more, "He heard, we heard, 

You and they heard, your motlier and j'our wife. 

Your children and the stranger in your gates : 

Did they, or did they not?" So much for him. 

The black sheei>, guest without the wedding-garb, 

And doubting Thomas ! Now's your turn to crow : 

" He's kind to think you such a fool : Sludge cheats ? 

Leave vou alone to take precautions ! " 

Straight 
The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed, 
Sips sileiit some such beverage as this. 
Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes 
And gulping David in good fellowship, 
Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange, 
A\ith no egg-nogg to lubricate the food, 
Some just as toiigh a morsel. Over the way. 
Holds Captain Sparks his court : is it better there? 
Hav(> not you Imnting-stories, scalping-scenes. 
And 31«>xi(an War ex|)loits to swallow plump 
If you'd b(; frc(; o' tlie stove-side, rocking-chair, 
And trio of affable daughters ? 



MR. SLUDGE, ^' THE MEDIUM:' 233 

Doubt succumbs ! 
Victory ! All yonr circle's yours again ! 
Out of the clubbing of submissive wits, 
David's performance rounds, each chink gets patched, 
Every protrusion of a point's filed fine, 
All's fit to set a-rolling round the world, 
And then return to David finally, • 

Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch. 
Here's a choice birth o' the supernatural, 
Poor Davids pledged to ! You've employed no tool 
That laws exclaim at, save the Devil's own. 
Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you 
To the top o' your bent, — all out of one half-lie ! 

You hold, if there's one half or a hundredth part 
Of a lie, that's his fault, — his be the penalty ! 
I dare say ! You'd prove firmer in his place ? 
You'd find the courage, — that first flurry over, 
That mild bit of romancing-work at end, — 
To interpose with " It gets serious, this ; 
Must stop liere. Sir, I saw no ghost at all. 
Inform your friends I made . . . well, fools of them. 
And found you ready made. I'a'c lived in clover 
These thi'ee weeks : take it out in kicks of me ! " 
I doubt it. Ask your conscience ! Let me know, 
Twelve months hence, with how" few" embellishments 
You've told almighty Boston of this passage 
Of arms between us, your first taste o' the foil 
From Sludge who could not fence, sir ! Sludge, your boy! 
I lied, sir, — there ! I got up from my gorge 
On offal in the gutter, and preferred ' 
Your canvas-backs : I took their carver's size. 
Measured his modicum of intelligence. 
Tickled him on the cockles of his heart 
With a raven feather, and next week found myself 
Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart, 
Set on a stool buttressed by ladies' knees, 
Every soft smiler calling me her pet, 
Encouraging my story to uncoil 
And creep out fron) its hole, inch after inch, 
" How last night, I no sooner snug in l)ed, 
Tucked up, just as they left me, — than came raps ! 
Wliile a light whisked " . . . " Shaped somewhat like a star ? " — 
"Well, like some sort of stars, ma'am," — " So we thought ! 
And any voice ? Not yet ? Try hard next time, 
If you can't hear a voice ; we think you may : 
At least, the Pennsylvanian 'mediums ' did." 
Oh, next time comes the voice ! " Just as we hoped ! " 
Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse 
O' the natural acknowledgment ? 

Of course ! 
So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat. 
On we sweep with a cataract ahead, 
AVe're midway to the Horse-shoe : stop, Avho can, 
The dance of bul)bles gay about our prow ! 
Experiences become worth waiting for, 
Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind. 
And compliment the " medium " j)roperly. 



234 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:' 

Concern themselves about his Sunday coat, 

See rings on his liand with jileasure. Ask yourself 

How you'd receive a course of treats like tliese ! 

A\ hy, take the quietest hack and stall him up, 

Craui him with corn a month, then out with him 

Among his mates on a briglit April morn, 

A\ ith -the turf to tread ; see if you find or no 

A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts ! 

Much more a youth whose fancies sprout ai rank 

As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. 'Tis soon, 

" Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry. 

Read, write, rap, rul)-a-dub, and hang yourself ! " 

I'm spared all further trouble ; all's arranged ; 

Your circle does my business ; I may rave 

Like an epileptic dervish in the books. 

Foam, fling myself fiat, rend my clothes to shreds ; 

No matter : lovers, friends, an(l countr\-inen 

Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right 

By the rule o' reverse. If Francis Verulam 

Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside 

With a y and a k, says he drew breath in York, 

Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned 

(As, sir. we somewhat fear he was apt to say, 

Before I found the usefid book that knows)', 

Why, what harm's done ? Tlie circle smiles apace, 

*' It was not Bacon, after all, do you see ! 

We understand : the trick's but natural ; 

Such spirits' individuality 

Is hard to put in evidence : they incline 

To gil)e and jeer, these undeveloped sorts. 

You see, their world's much like a jail broke loose, 

While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred, 

With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend. 

Serves as this window, Adiether thin or thick, 

Or stained or stainless ; he's the medium-pane 

Through which, to see us and be seen, they peei) : 

They crowd each other, hustle for a chance, 

Tread on their neighbor's kibes, play tricks enough ! 

Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside? 

Up in his place jumps Barnum — ' I'm your man, 

I'll answer you for Bacon ! ' Try once more ! " 

Or else it's — " What's a ' medium ? ' He's a means, 

Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means 

Spirits can speak by ; he may mi.sconceive. 

Stutter, and stammer, — he's their Sludge and drudge, 

"Take him or leave him ; they must hohl their peace, 

Or else, put up with having knowledge strained 

To half-expression through his ignorance. 

Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed 

New music he's brimful of ; why, he turns 

The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge, 

And what he poured in at the mouth o' the mill 

As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now !) 

Comes from the hopper as brand-new Sludge, naught else, 

The Shakers' Hymn in G, with a natural F, 

Or the ' Stars and Stripes ' set to consecutive fourths." 

Sir, Where's the scrape you did not help me through. 



J_ 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUMS 235 



You that are wise ? And for the fools, the folk 

Who came to see, — the guests, (observe that word !) 

Pray do you find guests criticise your wine. 

Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose ? 

Then, wliy your " medium " ? What's the difference ? 

Prove your Madeira red-ink and gamboge, — 

Your Skidge, a cheat— then somebody's a goose 

For vaunting botli as genuine. '* Guests ! " Don't fear ! 

They'll make a wry face, not too much of that, 

And leave you in your glory. 

" No, sometimes 
They doubt and say as much ! " Ay, doubt they do ! 
And what's the consequence ? " Of course they doubt " 
(You triumph) " that explains the hitch at once ! 
Doubt posed our ' medium,' puddled his pure mind ; 
He gave them back their rubbish : pitch chaff in. 
Could flour come out o' the honest mill ? " So, prompt 
Applaud the faithful : cases flock in point, 
" How, when a mocker willed a * medium ' once 
Should name a synrit James whose name was George, 
* James ' cried the ' medium,' — 'twas the test of truth ! " 
In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more. 
Does this convince ? The better : does it fail ? 
Time for the double-shotted broadside, then — 
The grand means, last resource. Look black and big ! 
" You style us idiots, therefore — why stop short ? 
Accomplices in rascality : this we hear 
In our own house, from our invited guest 
Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy 
Exposed by our good faith ! Have you been heard ? 
Now, then, hear us ; one man's not quite worth twelve. 
You see a cheat ? Here's some twelve see an ass : 
Excuse me if I calculate : good day ! " 
Out slinks the sceptic, all the laughs explode, 
Sludge waves his hat in triumph ! 

Or — he don't. 
There's something in real truth (explain who can !) 
One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse 
Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't munch 
Because he spies a corn-bag : hang that truth, 
It spoils all dainties proffered in its place ! 
I've felt at times when, cockered, cossetted. 
And coddled by the aforesaid company, 
Bidden enjoy their bullying — never fear. 
But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man, — 
I've felt a child ; only, a fractious child 
That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother, 
Who keep him from the kennel, sun, and wind. 
Good fun and wholesome mud, — enjoined be sweet, 
And comely and superior, — eyes askance 
The ragged sons o' the gutter at their game, 
Fain would be down with them i' the thick o' the filth, 
Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain. 
And calling granny the gray old cat she is. 
I've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them, 
Hug'^ings and humbug — gnashed my teeth to mark 
A decent dog pass ! It's too bad, I say. 
Ruining: a soul so ! 



236 MR. SLUDGE, ''TIJE MEDIUM:' 

But what's " so," what's fixed, 
Where may one stop ? Nowhere ! Tlie elieatiug's nursed 
Out of the lying, softly and siirelj' spun 
To just your length, sir ! I'd stoji soon enough : 
But 3"Ou're for progress. " All old, nothing new ? 
Only the usual talking through the mouth, 
Or writing by the hand ? I own, I thought 
This would develop, grow demonstrable, 
IVIake doubt absurd, give figures we might see, 
Flowers we might touch. There's no one doubts yon, Sludge I 
You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights. 
The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute. 
Still, for the sceptics' sake, to stop all mouths, 
"SYe want some outwanl manifestation ! — well, 
The Pennsylvanians gained such ; why not Sludge? 
He may improve with time ! " 

Ay, that he may ! 
He sees his lot : there's no avoiding fate. 
'Tis a trifie at first. " Eh, David ? Did you hear ? 
Y'ou jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak, 
This time you're . . . joking, are you not, my boy ?" — 
" N-n-no ! " — and I'm done for, bought and sold henceforth. 
The old good easy jog-trot way, the . . . eh ? 
The . . . not so very false, as falsehood goes, 
The spinning out and drawing line, you know, — 
Really mere novel-writing of a sort. 
Acting, or improvising, make-believe. 
Surely not downright cheatery, — any how, 
'Tis (lone with and my lot cast ; Cheat's my name : 
The fatal dash of brandy in your tea 
Has settled how you'll have the Souchong smack : 
The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle. 

Then, it's so cruel easy ! Oh, those tricks 

That can't be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand, 

Clearly no common conjurers ! — no, indeed ! 

A conjurer ? Choose me any rraft i' the world 

A man puts liand to ; and with six months' pains, 

I'll play you twenty tricks miraculous 

To i>eople untaught the trade. Have you seen glass blowU; 

Pipes pierced ? ^Yhy, just this biscuit that I chip, 

Did you ever watch a baker toss one fiat 

To tiie oven ? Try and do it ! Take my word, 

Practise but half as much, while limbs are lithe, 

To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints, 

^Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright, 

"Work wires that twitch the curtains. ]ilay the glove 

At end o' your slipper, — then put out the lights 

And . . , there, there, all you want you'll get, I hope ! 

I found it slip, easy as an old shoe. 

Now, lights on table again ! I've done my part, 

\''ou take my place while I give thanks and rest. 

" AYell, Judge Humgrulnn, what's your verdict, sir? 

You, hardest head in the United States, — 

Did you detect a cheat here ? Wait ! Let's see ! 

Just an experiment first, for candor's sake ! 

I'll try and cheat j'ou, Judge ! The table tilts : 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM." 237 

Is it I that move it ? Write ! I'll press your Land : 
Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge ! " 
Sludge still triumphant ! " That a rap, indeed ? 
That the real writing ? Very like a whale ! 
Then, if, sir, you — a most distinguished man, 
And, were the Judge not here, I'd say, ... no matter ! 
Well, sir, if you fail, you can't take us in, — 
There's little fear that Sludge will ! " 

Won't he, ma'am? 
But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge, 
Bade God hear witness that he played no trick, 
While you believed that what produced the raps 
Was just a certain child who died, j^ou know. 
And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt ? 
Eh ? That's a capital point, ma'am : Sludge begins 
At your entreaty with your dearest dead, 
The little voice set lisping once again. 
The tiny hand made feel for yours once more, 
The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams, 
Which image, if a word had chanced recall, 
The customary cloud would cross your eyes. 
Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang ! 
A right mood for investigation, this ! 
One's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan, 
Pompey and C?esar : but one's own lost child ... 
I wonder, when you heard the first clod drop 
From the spadeful at the grave, did you feel free 
To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf. 
Or brushed your flounces ? Then, it came of course 
You should be stunned and stupid ; then (how else ?) 
Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck work. 
But now, such causes fail of such effects. 
All's changed, — the little voice begins afresh. 
Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try 
And touch the truth. "Tests? Didn't the creature tell 
Its nurse's name, and say it lived six years. 
And rode a rocking-horse ? Enough of tests ! 
Sludge never could learn that ! " 

He could not, eh ? 
You compliment him " Could not V " Speak for yourself ! 
I'd like to know the man I ever saw 

Once, — never mind wdiere, how, why, when, — once saw, 
Of whom I do not keep some matter treasured 
He'd swear I " could not " know, sagacious soul ! 
What ? Do you live in this world's blow of blacks, 
Palaver, gossipry, a single hour 
Nor find one smut has settled on your nose. 
Of a smut's worth, no more, no less ? — one fact 
Out of the drift of facts, w^hereby you learn 
What some one was, somewhere, somewhen, somewhy ? 
You don't tell folk — " See wiiat has stuck to me ! 
Judge Humgruffin, our most distinguished man, 
Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife 
Thought to have ma,rried Miggs, missed him, hit you ! " — 
Do you, sir, though you see him twice a week ? 
" No," you reply, " w^hat use retailing it ? 
Why should I ?'" But, you see, one day you should, 



238 MR. SLUDGE, "'THE MEDIUM. 



Because one day there's much use, — when tliis fact 
Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees 
Before the supernatural ; proves that Sludge 
Knows, as you say, a thing he '' could not '' know : 
Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face 
The way the wind drives ? 

" Could not ! " Look you now, 
I'll tell you a story ! There's a whiskered chap, 
A foreigner, that teaches music here 
And gets his bread, — knowing no better way. 
He says, the fellow who informed of him 
And made him liy his country and fall West, 
Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles, and sang, 
In some outlandish place, the city Rome, 
In a cellar by their Broadway, ail daj* long ; 
Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look, 
Nor lifted nose from lapstoue ; let the world 
Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in 
The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up. 
Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay, 
And took his praise from government, you see ; 
For something like two dollars every week, 
He'd engage tell you some one little thing 
Of some one man, which led to many more 
(Because one truth leads right to the world's end), 
And make you that man's master — when he dined 
And on what dish, where walked to keej) his health. 
And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus 
His sense out, like an anteater's long tongue. 
Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible. 
And when 'twas crusted o'er with ci'eatures — slick, 
Their juice enriched his palate. " Could not Sludge 1 ** 
I'll go yet a step farther, and maintain, 
Once tile imposture plunged its proper deiith 
I' the rotten of your natures, all of you — 
(If one's not mad nor drunk, and hardly then). 
It's impossible to cheat —that's, be found out ! 
Go tell your brotherhood this first slip of mine, 
AH to-day's tale, how you detected Sludge, 
Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess. 
And so has come to grief ! You'll tind, I think, 
Why Shulge still snaps his fingers in your face. 
There now, you've told them ! What's their prompt reply ? 
" Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me, 
I'd disbelieve him. He may cheat at times ; 
That's in the ' medium '-nature, thus they're made. 
Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch. 
And so all cats are ; still a cat's the beast 
You cf)ax the strange electric sparks from out, 
By rublnng back its fur ; not so a dog. 
Nor lion, nor lamb : 'tis the cat's nature, sir ! 
Why not the dog's ? Ask God, who made thon beasts I 
D'ye think the sound, the nicely balanced man 
Like me " — (aside) — " like you yourself," — (aloud) 
— " He's stuff to make a ' medium ' ? Bless your soul, 
'Tis these hj'steric, hybrid half-and-halfs, 
Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire ! 
We must take such as we find them, 'ware their tricks, 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:' 239 



Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you — 
How, I can't saj', not being there to watch : 
He was tried, was tempted hj 3-our easiness, — 
He did not take iu me ! " 

Thank you for Sludge ! 
I'm to Tie grateful to such patrons," eh, 
AVhen what j^ou hear's my best word ? 'Tis a challenge 
" Snap at all strangers, half-tamed i^rairie-dog, 
So you cower dulj' at your keeper's nod ! 
Cat, show what claws'were inade for, muffling them 
Onh- to rae ! Cheat others if you can, 
Me. if you dare ! " And, my wise sir, I dared — 
Did cheat you lirst, made you cheat others next, 
And had the help o' your vaunted manliness 
To bully the incredulous. You used me ? 
Have not I used you, taken full revenge, 
Persuaded folk they knew not their own name. 
And straight they'd own the error ! AVho was the fool 
^Yhen, to an awe-struck wide-eyed open-mouthed 
Circle of sages. Sludge would introduce 
Milton composing baby-rhymes, and Locke 
Reasoning in gibljerish, Homer writing Greek 
In naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalms 
To crotchet and quaver ? I've made a spirit squeak 
In sham voice for a minute, then outbroke 
Bold in my own, defying the imbeciles — 
Have copied some ghost's pothooks, half a page, 
Then ended with my own scrawl nndisguised. 
'* All right ! The ghost was merely using Sludge, 
SuitiD.g itself from his imperfect stock ! " 
Don't talk of gratitude to me ! For what? 
For being treated as a showman's ape, 
Encoiiraged to be wicked and make sport, 
Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any mood 
So long as the ape be in it and no man — 
Because a nut pays every mood alike. 
Curse your superior, superintending sort, 
"Who, since you hate smoke, send up boys that climb 
To cure your chimney, bid a " mediuai " lie 
To sweep you truth down ! Curse your women too. 
Your insolent wives and daughters," that fire up 
Or faint awaj^ if a male hand squeeze theirs. 
Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with Sludge 
As only a " medium," only the kind of thing 
They must humor, fondle". . . oh, to misconceive 
AVere too preposterous ! But I've paid them out ! 
They've had their wish — called for the naked truth, 
And in she tripped, sat down, and liade them stare : 
They had to blush a liitle and forgive ! 
" The fact is, children talk so ; in next world 
All our conventions are reversed, — perhaps 
!Made light of ■ something like old prints, my dear ! 
The Judge has one, he brought from Italy, 
A metropolis in the background, — o'er a bridge, 
A team of trotting roadsters, — cheerful groups 
Of wayside travellers, peasants at their work. 
And, full iu front, quite unconcerned, why not? 
Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier, 



240 .V^. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM 



And never a raj? araonj? them : ' fine,' folk cry — 

Antl lieavenly manners seem not miu-li unlike ! 

Let Sludge go on : we'll fancy it's in print ! " 

If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn, 

Where is the wrong I did them ? 'Twas their choice : 

The}' tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up 

And lost, as some one's sure to do in games ; 

They fancied I was made to lose, — smoked glass 

Useful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes : 

And had I jiroved a red-hot iron plate 

They thought to pierce, and, for their pains, grew blind, 

Whose were the fault hut theirs ? While, as things go, 

Their loss amounts to gain, the more's the shame ! 

They've had their pee]) into the spirit-world. 

And all this world may know it ! They've fed fat 

Their self-conceit which else had starved : what chance 

Save this, of cackling o'er a golden egg 

And compassing distinction from the flock, 

Friends of a feather? Well, they paid for it, 

And not prodigiously ; the price o' the i^lay, 

Not counting certain pleasant interludes. 

Was scarce a vulgar play's worth. When you buy 

The actor's talent, do you dare propose 

For his soul beside? Whereas, my soul yon buy ! 

Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth, 

Or you'll not hear his first word ! Just go through 

That slight formality, swear himself's the Thane, 

And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour, 

Spout, sjirawl, or spin his target, no one cares ! 

Why hadn't I leave to play tricks. Sludge as Sludge ? 

Enough of it all ! I've wiped out scores with you — 

Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked 

Like toiu-fool with your ochre and carmine, 

AVorn patchwork your resjiectable fingers sewed 

To metamorphose somelnuly, — yes, I've earned 

My wages, swallowed down my bread of shame. 

And sliake the crumbs off — where but in your face ? 

As for religion — why, I served it, sir ! 
I'll stick to that ! With my phenomena 
I laid the atheist spiawling on his back, 
Propped up Saint Paid, or, at least, Swedeuborg I 
In fact, it's just the projier way to balk 
These troublesome fellows — liars, one and all, 
Are not these sceptics ? Well, to baffie Them, 
No use in being s(]ueamish : lie yourself ! 
Erect your buttress just as wide o' tlie line. 
Your side, as they've built up the wall on theirs ; 
Where hoth meet, midway in a point, is truth, 
High overhead : so, take your room, pile bricks. 
Lie ! Oh, there's titillation in all shame ! 
What snow may lose in white, it gains in rose ! 
Miss Stokes turns — Rahah, — nor a bad exchange I 
Glory be on her, for the good she wrought, 
Breeding belief anew 'neath ribs of death, 
Brow-beating now the unabashed before, 
Ritlding us of their whole life's gathered straws 
By a live coal from the altar ! Why, of old, 
Great meu spent years and years in writing books 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUMS 241 



To prove we've souls, and hardly proved it then : 

Miss Stokes with her live coal, for you and me ! 

Surely, to this good issue, all was fair — 

Not only fondling Sludge, hut, even suppose 

He let escape some spice of knavery, — well, 

In wisely being blind to it ! Don't you praise 

Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye 

And saying . . . what was it — that he could not see 

The signal he was bothered with ? Ay, indeed ! 

I'll go beyond : there's a real love of a lie, 

Liars find ready-made for lies they make, 

As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum. 

At best, 'tis never pure and full belief ; 

Those farthest in the quagmire, —don't suppose 

They strayed there with no warning, got no chance 

Of a filth-speck in their face, which they clinched teeth, 

Bent brow against ! Be sure they had their doubts, 

And fears, and fairest challenges to try 

The -floor o' the seeming solid sand ! But no ! 

Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised, 

All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved. 

And Sludge called " pet : " 'twas easier marching on 

To the promised land ; join those who, Thursdaj'^ next, 

M;\uit to meet Shakspeare ; better follow Sludge — 

Prudent, oh sure ! — on the alert, how else ? 

But making for the mid-bog, all the same ! 

To hear your outcries, one would think I caught 

Miss Stokes by the scuff o' the neck, and pitched her flat. 

Foolish-face-foremost ! Hear these simpletons, 

That's all I beg, before my work's begun, 

Before I've touched them with mj^ finger-tip ! 

Thus they await me (do but listen, now ! 

It's reasoning, this is, — I can't imitate 

The baby voice, though) "In so many tales 

Must he some truth, truth though a pin-point big. 

Yet, some : a single man's deceived, perhaps — 

Hardly, a thousand : to suppose one cheat 

Can gull all these, were more miraculous far 

Than aught we shonld confess a miracle '' — 

And so on. Then the Judge sums up —(it's rare) 

Bids you respect the authorities that leap 

To the judgment-seat at once, — why, don't you note 

The limpid nature, the unblemished life, 

The spotless honor, indisputable sense 

Of the first upstart with his story? AVhat — 

Outrage a boy on whom you ne'er till now 

Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him? 

Fools, these are : ay, and how of their opposites 
Who never did, at bottom of their hearts, 
Believe for a moment ? — Men emasculate, 
Blank of belief, who played, as eimuchs use, 
With superstition safely, — cold of blood, 
Who saw what made for them i' the mystery. 
Took their occasion, and supported Sludge 

— As proselytes ? No, thank you, far too shrewd ! 

— But promisers of fair play, encouragers 

O' the claimant ; who in candor needs must hoist 



242 ME. SLUDGE, '' TITE MEDIUM. 



Sludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of Sludge 

To carry off. criticise, and cant about ! 

Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so ? — at any rate, 

It's " a new thing," ])hilosophy fumbles at. 

Then there's the other picker out of pearl 

From dung-heaps, — ay, your literary man, 

AVho draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge 

Daintily and discreetly, — sliakes a dust 

O' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how, 

The narrative or the novel, — half-believes. 

All for the book's sake, and the public's stare, 

And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world ! 

Look at him ! Try to be too bold, too gross 

For the master ! Not you ! He's the man for muck ; 

Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brown 

Into artistic richness, never fear ! 

Find bim the crude stuff ; when you recognize 

Your lie again, you'll doff your hat to it. 

Dressed out for company ! " " For company," 

I say, since there's the relish of success : 

Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth, 

Save the soft, silent, smirking gentleman 

Who ushered in the stranger : you must sigh 

"How melancholy, he, the only one 

Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth 

Himself gaA'e birth to ! " — There's the triumph's smack I 

That man would choose to see the wliole world roll 

I' the slime o' the slough, so he miglit touch tlu; tip 

Of his brush with what I call the best of browns — 

Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power 

Of the outworn umber and bistre ! 

Yet I think 
There's a more hateful form of foolery — 
The social sage's, Solomon of saloons 
And philosophic diner-out, the fribble 
Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block 
To try the edge of his faculty upon, 
Prove how much conunon sense lie'll hack and hew 
I' the critical minute 'twixt the soup and fish ! 
These were my patrons : these, and the like of them 
Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it. — 
These I have injured ! Gratitude to these ? 
The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute 
To the greenhorn and the bully — friends of hers, 
From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club, 
To the snuff-box-<lecorator, honest man. 
Who just was at his wits' end where to find 
So genial a Pasiphae ! All and eacli 
Pay, compliment, protect from the police, 
And how she hates them for their pains, like me ! 
So much for my remorse at thanklessness 
Toward a deserving public ! 

But, for God? 
Ay, that's a question ! Well, sir, since you press — 
(How you do teaze the whole thing out of me ! 
I don't mean yon, you know, when I say, "them : " 
Hate you, indeed l' But that Miss Stokes, that Judge I 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:' 243 



Enough, enough — with sugar : thank you, sir !) 

Now for it then ! Will you believe me, though ? 

You've heard what I confess ; I don't unsay 

A single word : I cheated when I could, 

Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work, 

Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink, 

Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match, 

And all the rest ; believe that : believe this, 

By the same token, though it seem to set 

The crooked straight again, unsay the said, 

Stick up what I've thrown down ; I can't lielp that, 

It's truth ! 1 somehow vomit truth to-day. 

This trade of mine — I don't know, can't'be sure 

But there was something in it, tricks and all ! 

Really, I want to light up my own mind. 

They were tricks, — true, but what I mean to add 

Is also true. First, — don't it strike you, sir? 

Go back to the beginning, — the first fact 

We're taught is, there's a world beside this world, 

With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry ; 

That much within that world once sojourned here, 

That all upon this world will visit there, 

And therefore that we, bodily here below. 

Must have exactly such an interest 

In learning what may be the ways o' the world 

Above us, as the disembodied folk 

Have (by all analogic likelihood) 

In watching how things go in the old world 

With us, their sons, successors, and what not. 

Oh, yes, with added powers probably. 

Fit for the novel state, — old loves grown pure, 

Old interests understood aright, — they watch ! 

Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help. 

Proportionate to advancement : they're ahead, 

That's all — do what we do, but noblier done — 

Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf 

(To use a figure). 

Concede that, and I ask 
Next what may be the mode of intercourse 
Between us men here, and those once-men there ? 
First comes the Bible's speech ; then, history 
With the supernatural element, — you know — 
All that we sucked in with our mothers' milk, 
Grew up with, got inside of tis at last. 
Till it's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh. 
See now, we start with the miraculous. 
And know it used to be, at all events : 
What's the first step we take, and can't but take. 
In arguing from the known to the obscure ? 
Why, this : " What was before, may be to-day. 
Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul, — of course 
My brother's spirit may appear to me." 
Go tell your teacher that ! What's his reply ? 
What brings a shade of doubt for the first time 
O'er his brow late so luminous with faith ? 
" Such things have been," says he, *' and there's no doubt 
Such things may be : but I advise mistrust 
Of eyes, ears, stomach, —more than all, of brain, 



244 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUMS 

Unless it he of your great-grandraother, 

Whenever they propose a ghost to you ! '* 

The end is, tliere's a composition struck ; 

'Tis settled, we've some way of intercourse 

Just as in Saul's time ; only, different : 

How, when, and where, precisely, — find it out I 

I want to know, then, what's so natural 

As that a person born into this world 

And seized on by such teaching, should begin 

With firm expe(;tancy and a frank look-out 

For his own allotment, his especial share 

I' the secret, — his particular ghost, in fine? 

I mean, a person born to look that way, 

Since natures differ : take the painter-sort, 

One man lives fift^' years in ignorance 

Whether grass be green or red, — " No kind of eye 

For color," say you ; while another picks 

And puts away even pebbles, wheti a child, 

Because of bluish spots and pinky veins — 

"Give hira forthwitli a jiaint-box ! " Just the same 

Was I born ..." medium," you won't let me say, — 

Well, seer of the supernatural 

Every when, everyhow, and everywhere, — 

Will that do? 

I and all such boys of course 
Started with the same stock of Bible-truth ; 
Only, — what in the rest you style their sense, 
Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative, 
This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law 
And ours another : " New world, new laws," cried they : 
" None but old laws, seen everywluore at work," 
Cried I, and by their help exi)lained my life 
The Jews' way, still a working way to me. 
Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights, 
Or Santa Claus slid down on New-Year's Eve 
And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed. 
Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate 
O' the sum that came to grief the day before. 

This could not last long : soon enough I found 

Who had worked wonders thus, and to what end : 

But did I find all easy, like mN"^ mates? 

Henceforth no supernatural any more ? 

Not a whit : what jirojects the billiard-balls? 

" A cue," you answer : " Yes. a cue," said I ; 

" But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue? 

What unseen agency, outside the world. 

Prompted its inippets to do this and that. 

Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind, 

These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?" 

Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since. 

Just so I reason, in sober earnest still, 

About the greater godsends, what you call 

The serious gains and losses of my life. 

What do I know or care about your world 

Which either is or seems to be ? This snap 

O' my fingers, sir ! My care is for myself ; 

Myself am whole and sole reality 



MR. SLUDGE, '' THE MEDIUM:' 245 



Inside a raree-show and a rnarket-mob 

GatheroJ about it : that's the use of things. 

'Tis easy saying tliey serve vast purposes. 

Advantage their grand selves : he it true or false, 

Each thing may have two uses. What's a star ? 

A world, or a workl's sun : doesn't it serve 

As taper also, time-piece, weather-glass. 

And almanac ? Are stars not set for signs 

When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees? 

The Bible says so. 

Well, I add one use 
To all the acknowledged uses, and declare 
If I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night, 
It warns me, '• Go, nor lose another daj^ 
And have your hair cut, Sludge ! " You laugh : and why ? 
Were-such a sign too hard for God to give ? 
No : but Sludge seems too little for such grace : 
Thank you, sir ! So you think, so does not Sludge ! 
When you and good men gape at Providence, 
Go into historj' and bid us mark 
Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns 
Kept on kings' heads by miracle enough. 
But private mercies — oh, you've told me, sir, 
Of such interpositions ! How yourself 
Once, missing on a memorable day 
Your handkerchief — just setting out, you know, — 
You must return to fetch it, lost the train, 
And saved your precious self from what befell 
The thirt3'-three whom Providence forgot. 
You tell, and ask me what I think of this ? 
Well, sir, I think, then, since you needs must know. 
What matter had you and Boston City to boot 
Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings ? Much 
To you, no doubt : for me — undoubtedly 
The cutting of my hair concerns me inore. 
Because, however sad the truth may seem. 
Sludge is of all-importance to himself. 
You set apart that day in every year 
For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else : 
Well, I who cannot boast the like escape. 
Suppose I said " I don't thank Providence 
For my part, owing it no gratitude ? " — 
" Nay, but you owe as much " — you'd tutor me. 
You, every man alive, for blessings gained 
In every hour o' the day, could you but know ! 
I saw my crowning mercy : all have such. 
Could they but see ! " Well, sir, why don't they see ? 
" Because they won't look, — or perhaps they can't." 
Then, sir, suppose 1 can, and will, and do 
Look, microscopically as is right. 
Into each hour with its infinitude 
Of influences at work to profit Sludge ? 
For that's the case : I've sharpened up my sight 
To spy a providence in the fire's going out. 
The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking fast 
Despite the hole i' the pocket Call such facts 
Fancies, too petty a work for Providence, 
And those same thanks which 3'ou exact from me, 



246 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM: 



Prove too prodigious payment : thanks for what, 

If nothing guards and guides us little men? 

No, no, sir ! You must put away your pride, 

Resolve to let Sludge into partnership ! 

I live by signs and omens : look at the roof 

Where the pigeons settle — " If the farther bird, 

The white, takes wing first, I'll confess when thrashed ; 

Not, if the blue does " — so I said to myself 

Last week, lest you should take me by surprise : 

Off flapped the white, — and I'm confessing, sir ! 

Perhaps 'tis Providence's whim and way 

"With only me, i' the world : how can you tell ? 

" Because unlikely ! " Was it likelier, now, 

That this our one out of all worlds beside. 

The what-d'you-call-'em millions, should be just 

Precisely chosen to make Adam for, 

And the rest o' the tale ? Yet the tale's true, you know 

Such undeserving clod was graced so once ; 

Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge ? 

Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags ? 

All you can bring against my privilege 

Is, that another way was taken with you, — 

Which I don't question. It's pui-e grace, ray luck. 

I'm broken to the way of nods and winks, 

And need no formal summoning. You've a help ; 

Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands. 

Stamp with your foot or pull the bell : all's one, 

He understands j^ou want him, here he comes. 

Just so, I come at the knocking : you, sir, wait 

The tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catch 

Reason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk, 

Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer 

Your mother's face turned heavenward : short of these 

There's no authentic intimation, eh ? 

Well, when yon hear, you'll answer them, start up 

And stride into the i>resence, top of toe. 

And there find Sludge beforehand. Sludge that sprung 

At noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall ! 

I think myself the more religious man. 

Religion's all or nothing ; it's no mere smile 

O' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir — 

No quality o' the flnelier-tempered clay 

Like its whiteness or its lightness ; rather, stuff 

O' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self. 

I tell you, men won't notice ; when they do, 

They'll understand. I notice nothing else, 

I'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape, 

Nothing eludes me, every thing's a hint. 

Handle, and help. It's all absurd, and yet 

There's something in it all, I know : how much ? 

No answer ! What does that prove ? Man's still man, 

Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work 

When all's done ; but, if somewhat's done, like this, 

Or not done, is the case the same ? Sujipose 

I blunder in my guess at the true sense 

O' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten, — 

What if the tenth guess happen to be right? 

If the tenth shovel-load of powdered (jnartz 

Yield me the nugget ? I gather, crush, sift all. 



MR. SLUDGE, " THE MEDIUM.'' 247 

Pass o'er the failure, pounce on tlie success. 

To give you a notion, now — (let who wins, laugh !) 

When first I see a man, what do I first ? 

"Why. count the letters which make up his name, 

And as their number chances, even or odd, 

Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course : 

Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name, 

And haven't I found a patron, sir, in you ? 

" Shall I cheat this stranger ? " I take apple-pips, 

Stick one in either cunthus of my eye. 

And if the left droits first — (your left, sir, stuck) 

I'm warned, I let the trick alone this time. 

You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash, 

You judge of character by other rules : 

Don't your rules sometiui'es fail you ? Pray, what rule 

Have you judged Sludge by hitherto ? 

Oh, be sure. 
You, everybody blunders, just as I, 
In simpler things than these by far ! For see : 
I knew two farmers, — one, a wiseacre 
Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs, 
Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost. 
And then declared, for outcome of his pains. 
Next summer must be dampish : 'twas a drought. 
His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall, 
Saved hay and corn, made cent per cent thereby. 
And proved a sage indeed : how came his lore ? 
Because one brindled heifer, late in March, 
Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow 
He got into his head that drought was meant ! 
I don't expect all men can do as much : 
Such kissing goes by favor. You must take 
A certain turn of mind for this, — a twist 
I' the liesh, as well. Be lazily alive. 
Open-mouthed, like my friend the anteater, 
Letting all nature's looselj^ guarded motes 
Settle and, slick, be swallowed ! Think yourself 
The one i' the world, the one for whom the world 
AVas made, expect it tickling at your mouth ! 
Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies. 
Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive, 
Breed, multiply, and bring j^ou food enough. 
I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir ! 
Oh, what you mean is this ! Such intimate way. 
Close converse, frank exchange of offices, 
Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great 
With the infinitely small, betokened here 
By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks, — 
How does it suit the dread traditional text 

O' the " Great and Terrible Name ? " Shall the Heaven of heavens 
Stoop to such child's play ? 

Please, sir, go with me 
A moment, and I'll try to answer you. 
The " Magnum et ierrihile " (is that right ?) 
Well, folk began with this in the early day ; 
And all the acts they recognized in proof 
Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt 



248 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:' 

Indisputably on men whose death they caused. 

There, and there only, folk saw Providence 

At woriv, — and seeing it, 'twas right enough 

All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain, 

And knees knock hard together at the breath 

O' the Name's first letter ; why, the Jews, I'm told, 

"Won't write it down, no, to this very hour, 

Nor speak aloud : you know best if't be so. 

Each ague-fit of fear at end, they crept 

(Because somehow people once born must live) 

Out of the sound, sight, swing, and sway o' the Name, 

Into a corner, the dark rest of the world, 

And safe space where as yet no fear had reached ; 

'Twas there they looked about them, breathed again, 

And felt indeed at home, as we might say. 

The current o' common tilings, the daily life. 

This had their due contempt ; no Name pursued 

IVIan from the mountain-top where fires abide, 

To his iiarticular mouse-hole at its foot 

Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short : 

Such was man's vulgar business, far too small 

"To be worth thunder ; " small," folk kept on, " small," 

With much complacency in those great days ! 

A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass — 

What was so despicable as mere grass, 

Except perhaps the life o' the worm or fly 

Which fed there ? These were " small " and men were great. 

Well, sir, the old way's altered somewhat since, 

And the world wears another aspect now : 

Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else 

Puts a new lens in it : grass, worm, tly grow big : 

We find great things are made of little things, 

And little things go lessening till at last 

Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now? 

We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites 

That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites. 

The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst, 

The simplest of creations, just a sac 

That's mouth, heart, legs, and belly at once, yet lives 

And feels, and could do neither, we conclude, 

If simplified still further one degree : 

The small becomes the dreadful and immense ! 

Lightning, forsooth ? No word more upon that ? 

A tin- foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk, 

With a bit of wii-e and knob of i)rass, and there's 

Your dollar's worth of lightning ! But the cyst — 

The life of the least of the little things ? 

No, no ! 
Preachers and teachers try another tack. 
Come near the truth this time : they put aside 
Thunder and lightning : " That's mistake," they cry, 
" Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport, 
But do appreciable good, like tides, 
Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts — 
' Good ' meaning good to man, his body or soul. 
Mediate, immediate, all things minister 
To man, — that's settled : be our future text 
* We are His children 1 ' " So, they now harangue 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM:' 249 



About the intention, the contrivance, all 
That keeps up an incessant play of love, — 
See the Bridge water book. 

Amen to it ! 
"Well, sir, I put this question : I'm a child ? 
I lose no time, but take you at your word : 
How shall I act a child's part properly ? 
Your sainted mother, sir, — used you to live 
With such a thought as this a-worrying you ? 
" She has it in her power to throttle me, 
Or stab or poison : she may turn me out, 
Or lock me in, — nor stop at this to-day, 
But cut me off to-morrow from the estate 
I look for " — (long may you enjoy it, sir !) 
" In brief, she may unchild the child I am." 
You never had such crotchets ? Nor have I ! 
Who, frank confessing childship from the first, 
Cannot both fear and take my ease at once, 
So, don't fear, —know what might be, well enough. 
But know too, childlike, that it will not be, 
At least in my case, mine, tlie son and heir 
O' tlie kingdom, as yourself i-)roclaiin my style. 
But do you fancy I stop short at this ? 
Wonder if suit and service, son and heir 
Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find? 
If, looking for signs proper to such an one, 
I straight perceive them irresistible ? 
Concede that homage is a son's plain right. 
And, never mind the nods and raps and winks, 
'Tis the pure obvious supernatural 
Steps forward, does its duty : why, of course ! 
I have presentiments ; my dreams come true : 
I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white 
Blithe as a bob'link, and he's dead I learn. 
I take dislike to a dog my favorite long. 
And sell him : he goes mad next week, and snaps. 
I guess that stranger will turn up to-day 
I have not seen these three years : there's his knock. 
I wager " sixty peaches on that tree ! " — 
That I pick up a dollar in my walk. 
That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George 
And win on all points. Oh ! you wince at this ? 
You'd fain distinguish between gift and gift, 
Washington's oracle and Sludge's itch 
O' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump? 
With Sludge it's too absurd ? Fine, drcno the line 
Somewhere ; bat, sir, yojir someivhere is not mine ! 
Bless us, I'm turning poet ! It's time to end. 
How you have drawn me out, sir ! All I ask 
Is — am I heir or not heir ? If I'm he, 
Then, sir, remember, that same personage 
(To judge by what we read i' the newspaper) 
Requires, beside one nobleman in gold 
To carry up and down his coronet. 
Another servant, probably a duke. 
To hold egg-nogg in readiness : why want 
Attendance, sir, when helps in his father's house 
Abound, I'd like to know ? 



250 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM: 



Enough of talk ! 
^ly fault is that I tell too phiiu a truth. 
Why, NA'hich of those who say they disbelieve, 
Your clever people, hut has dreamed his dream, 
Cauf?ht his coiucidence, stumbled on his fact 
He can't explain (he'll tell you smilingly), 
Which he's too much of a philosopher 
To count as supernatural, indeed. 
So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it : 
Bidding you still be on your guard, you know, 
Because one fact don't make a system stand. 
Nor prove this an occasional escape 
Of spirit beneath tlie matter : that's the way ! 
Just so wild Indians picked up, ])iece hy piece, 
The fact in California, the fine gold 
That underlay the gravel — hoarded these, 
But never made a system stand, nor dug ! 
So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm 
A handful of experience, sparkling fact 
They can't explain ; and since their rest of life 
Is ail explainable, what proof in this? 
Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold, 
And tling awaA' the dirt\' rest of life, 
And add this grain to the grain each fool has found 
O' the million other such philosophers, — 
Till I see gold, all gold and only gold, 
Truth questionless though uuexplainable, 
And the miraculous proved the commonplace ! 
The other fools believed in mud, no doubt — 
Failed to know gold they saw : was that so strange ? 
Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues, 
" Time " with the foil in carte, jump their own height, 
Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five, 
;Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails 
While swimming, in live minutes row a mile. 
Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm, 
Do sums of fifty figures in their head. 
And so on, by the scores of instances? 
The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts, 
His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank 
With these, and share the advantage. 

Av, but share 
The drawback ! Think it over by yourself : 
I have not heart, sir, and the fire's gone gray. 
Defect somewhere comj^tensates for success. 
Every one knows that. Oh, we're e(pials, sir ! 
The big-legged fellow has a little arm 
And a less brain, though big legs win the race : 
Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot ? 
Saj', I was born with flesh so sensitive, 
Soul so alert, that, practice helping both, 
I guess what's going on outside the veil, 
Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time 
In the islands where bis kind are, so must fall 
To capering by himself some shiny night. 
As if your itack-y;»rd were a plot of spice — 
Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world : while you, 
Blind as a beetle that way, —for amends, 



MR. 8LUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM'' 251 



Wliy, you can double fist and floor me, sir ! 

Ride tiiat hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours, 

Laugh whih^ it lightens, play with the great dog, 

Si)eak your mind though it vex some friend to hear, 

Never brag, never bluster, never blush, — 

In short, you've pluck, when I'm a coward — there ! 

I know it, I can't hel]:) it, — folly or no, 

I'm paralyzed, my hand's no more a hand, 

Nor my head, a head, in danger : you can sujile, 

And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift's not mine. 

Would you swap for mine ? No ! but you'd add my gift 

To yours : I dare saj^ ! I too sigh at times. 

Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch. 

Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much 

Being dressed gayly, making strangers stare, 

Eating nice things ; when I'd amuse myself, 

I shut my eyes and fanc}'^ in my brain, 

I'm — now the President, now, Jenny Lind, 

Now, Emerson, now, the Benicia Boy — 

With all the civilized world a-wonderin^ 

And worshipping. I know it's folly and worse ; 

I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul ; 

But I can't cure myself, — despond, desjiair, 

And then, hey, presto, there's a turn o' the wheel. 

Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends ; 

Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things 

You all are blind to, —I've my taste of truth, 

Likewise my touch of falsehood, — vice no doubt, 

But you've your vices also ; I'm content. 

What, sir ? You won't shake hands ? " Because I cheat ! 

" You've found me out in cheating ! " That's enough 

To make an a])ostle swear ! Why, when I cheat. 

Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act. 

Are yon, or rather, am I sure o' the fact ? 

(There's verse again, but I'm inspired somehow.) 

Well then I'm not sure ! I ma.y be, perhaps. 

Free as a babe from cheating : how it began, 

My gift, — no matter ; what 'tis got to l)e 

In the end now, that's the question ; answer that ! 

Had I seen, i^terhaps, what hand was holding mine. 

Leading me whither, I had died of fright, 

So, I was made believe I led myself. 

If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof 

To roof, you would not cross the street, one step, 

Even at your mother's summons : but, being shrewd, 

If I i)aste pajier on each side the plank, 

And swear 'tis solid pavement, why, you'll cross 

Humming a tune the while, in ignorance 

Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below : 

I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone. 

Some impulse made me set a thing o' the move 

Which, started once, ran really by itself ; 

Beer flows thus, suck the siphon ;' toss the kite, 

It takes the wind and floats of its own force. 

Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lack 

Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it ! 

Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen, 

She'll lay a real one, laudably decei\ ed, 



252 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM. 



Daily for weeks to come. I've told 1113- lie, 
And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine ; 
All was not cheating, sir, I'ln positive ! 
I don't know if I move j'onr hand sometimes 
AYhen the spontaneous writing spreads so far, 
If my knee lilts the tahle all that height, 
"NVhy the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt, 
Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz 
Than I can pick out on the piano-forte, 
"V\'hy I speak so much more than I intend, 
Describe so many things I never saw. 
I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe 
Nothing at all, — that everybody can. 
Will, and does cheat : but in another sense 
I'm ready to believe my very self — 
That every cheat's inspired, and every lie 
Quick w ith a germ of truth. 

You ask perhaps 
Why I should condescend to trick at all 
If I know a way without it? This is why ! 
There's a strange, secret, sweet self-sacritice 
In any desecration of one's soul 
To a worthy end, — isn't it Herodotus 
(I wish I could read Latin !) who describes 
The single gilt o' the land's virginity, 
Denjanded in those old Egyptian rites, 
(I've but a hazy notion — liel[) me, sir !) 
For one purpose in the world, one day in a life, 
One hour in a day — thereafter, ]nirity, 
And a veil thrown o'er the past for evermore 1 
Well now, they understood a many things 
Down by Nile city, or wherever it was ! 
I've always vowed, after the minute's lie, 
And the end's gain, — truth should be mine henceforth. 
This goes to the root o' the matter, sir, —this plain 
Plump fact : accept it, and unlock with it 
The wards of many a puzzle ! 

Or, finally, 
Why should I set so fine a gloss on things ? 
What need I care ? I cheat in self-defence, 
And there's my answer to a world of cheats ! 
Cheat? To be sure, sir ! What's the world worth else ? 
AVho takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars ? 
Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing up 
And polishing over? Your so-styled great men, 
Do they accept one truth as truth is found, 
Or try their skill at tinkering ? What's your world ? 
Here are you born, who are, I'll say at once, 
Of the luckiest whether as to head and heart. 
Body and soul, or all that helps the same. 
AVell, now, look back : what faculty of yours 
Came to its full, had ample justice done 
Hy growing when rain f(dl, biding its time, 
Solidifying growth when earth was dead. 
Spiring up. broadening wide, in seasons due? 
Never I You shot up and frost nii)ped you off, 
Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout ; 



3IR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM.'' 253 



One faculty thwarted its fellow : at the end, 

All you boast is, "I had proved a topping tree 

In other climes " — jet this was the right clime 

Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you've force 

"Wasted like well-streams : old, — oh, then indeed, 

Behold a labyrinth of hj'draulic pij^es 

Through which you'd play off wondrous waterwork ; 

Only, no water left to feed their play. 

Young, — you've a hope, an aim, a love ; it's tossed 

And crossed and lost : j'ou struggle on, some spark 

Shut in your heart against the puffs around, 

Through cold and pain ; these in due time subside, 

Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded light 

You mean to loose on the altered face of things, — 

Up with it on the tripod ! It's extinct. 

Spend your life's remnant asking — which was best, 

Light smothered iTp that never peeped forth once, 

Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine ? 

AVell, accept this too, — seek the fruit of it 

Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth, 

But knowledge, useful for a second chance. 

Another life, — you've lost this world, you've gained 

Its knowledge for the next. — What knowledge, sir, 

Exce]it that you know nothing ? Nay, you doubt 

Whether 'twere better have been made man or brute, 

If aught is true, if good and evil clash. 

No foul, no fair, no inside, no outside, 

There's your world ! 

Give it me ! I slap it brisk 
With harlequin's pasteboard sceptre : what's it now? 
Changed like a rock-tiat, rough with rusty weed. 
At first wash-over o' the returning wave ! 
All the dry, dead, impracticable stuff 
Starts into life and light again ; this world 
Pervaded by the influx from the next. 
I cheat, and what's the happy consequence ? 
You find full justice straightway dealt you out, 
Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease, 
Each folly fooled. No life-long labor now 
As the price of worse than nothing ! No mere film 
Holding you chained in iron, as it seems. 
Against the outstretch of your very arms 
And legs i' the sunshine moralists forbid ! 
What would you have ? Just speak and, there, you see ! 
You're supplemented, made a whole at last : 
Bacon advises, Sliakspeare writes you songs. 
And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you. 
Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps, 
But so near, that the very diffei'ence piques, 
Shows that e'en better than this best will be — 
This passing entertainment in a hut 

Whose bare walls take your taste — since, one stage more, 
And you arrive at the palace : all half real, 
And you, to suit it, less than real beside. 
In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life. 
That helps the interchange of natures, fiesh 
Transfused by souls, and such souls ! Oh, 'tis choice I 
And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, 



254 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM. 



Seem iiij^h on Lnrsting, — if you nearly see 

The real world through the false, — what do you see ? 

Is the ohl so ruined ? You tind you're in a flock 

O' the youthful, earnest, passionate — genius, beauty, 

Rank and wealth also, if you care for these, 

And all depose their natural rights, hail you 

(That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow. 

Participate in Sludgehood — nay, grow mine, 

I veritably jwssess them — banish doubt, 

And reticence and UKnlesty alike ! 

\Vh3% here's the Golden Age, old Paradise, 

Or new Entopia ! Here is life indeed. 

And the world well won now, yours for the first time I 

And all this might be, may be, and with good help 

Of a little lying shall be : so, Sludge lies ! 

Wh3', he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks 

That never were, in Troy which never was. 

Did this or the other impossible great thing ! 

He's Lowell — it's a world, you smile and say, 

Of his own invention — wondrotis Longfellow, 

Surprising Hawthorne ! Sludge does more than they, 

And acts the books the}' write : the more his praise ! 

But why do I mount to poets ? Take plain prose — 

Dealers in common sense, set these at work, 

^Vhat can thtjy do without their helpful lies? 

Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing 

Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit. 

Is blind to wluit missuits him, just records 

"What makes his case out, (piite ignores the rest. 

It's a History of the Worhl, the Lizard Age, 

The Early Indians, the Old Country AVar, 

Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please, 

All as the auth(n- wants it. Such a scribe 

You pay and praise for putting life in stones, 

Fire into fog, making the past your world. 

There's plenty of '• How did you contrive to grasp 

The thread which led you through this labyrinth ? 

How build such solid fabric out of air? 

How on so slight foundation found this tale. 

Biography, narrative?" or, in other words, 

" How many lies did it require o make 

The portly truth you here present us with ? " — 

" Oh ! " quoth the penman, purring at your praise, 

" 'Tis fancj- all ; no particle of fact : 

I was poor and threailbare when I wrote that book 

' Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes ? 

\V<' writers ]viint out of our lieads, you see ! " 

— " Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you. 

The more creativeness and godlike craft ! " 

But I, do I present you with my ]>iece, 

It's " What, Sludg(!? When my sainted mother spoke 

The verses Lady Jane Gr(\y last composed 

About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven 

Wliere she and Queen Elizabeth keei> house, — 

You made the raps? 'Twas your invention that? 

Cur, slav(\ and devil ! " — eight fingers and two thumbs 

Stuck in my throat? 



MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUMS 255 

AYell, if the marks seem goae, 
'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken iu time, 
Is better for a bruise than arnica. 
There, sir ! I bear no malice : 'tisn't in me. 
I know I acted Avrongly : still, I've tried 
^Yhat I could say in my excuse, — to show 
The Devil's not all devil ... I don't pretend, 
An angel, nmch less such a gentleman 
As voii, sir ! And I've lost you, lost myself, 
Lost all, 1-1-1- . . . 

No — are you in earnest, sir ? 
Oh, yours, sir, is an angel's part ! I know 
What prejutlice prompts, and what's the common course 
Men take to soothe their rufHed self-conceit : 
Only you rise superior to it all ! 
NOj'sir, it don't hurt much ; it's speaking long 
That makes me choke a little : the marks will go ! 
"What ? Twenty V-notes more, and outfit too. 
And not a word to Greeley ? One — one kiss 
O' the hand that saves me ! You'll not let me speak 
I well know, and I've lost the right, too true ! 
But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does) 
Your sainted \ . . Well, sir, — be it so ! That's, I think, 
My bed-room candle. Good-night ! Bl-1-less you, sir ! 



R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard ! Cowardly scamp ! 

I only wish I dared burn down the house 

And spoil your sniggering ! Oh ! what, you're the man? 

Y'ou're satisfied at last ? You've found out Sludge ? 

AVe'll see that presently : my turn, sir, next ! 

I too can tell my story : brute, — do you hear ? — 

You throttled your sainted mother, tliat old hag, 

In just such a lit of passion : no, it was . . . 

To get this house of hers, and many a note 

Like these . . . I'll pocket them, however . . . five, 

Ten, fifteen . . , ay, you gave her throat tlie twist, 

Or else you poisoned her ! Confound the cuss ! 

Where was my head ? I ought to have jirophesied 

He'll die in a year and join her : that's the way. 

I don't know where my head is : what had I done? 

How did it all go ? I said he poisoned her, 

And hoped he'd have grace given him to repent. 

Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me, 

And called me cheat : I thrashed him, — who could help ? 

He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees 

To cut and run and save him from disgrace : 

I do so, and once off, he slanders me. 

An end of him. Begin elsewhere anew ! 

Boston's a hole, the herring-pond is wide, 

V-notes are something, liberty still moi-e. 

Beside, is he the only fool in the world ? 



256 



THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 



THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 

MoKNiNG, evening, noon, and night, 
" Praise God ! " sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned. 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he labored, long and well : 
O'er his work the boy's curls fell. 

But ever, at each period. 

He stopped and sang, " Praise God ! " 

Then back again his curls he threw, 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, 

" Well done ; 
I doubt not thou art heard, my son, 

" As well as if thy voice to-day 
Were praising God, the Pope's great 
way. 

" This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 
Praises God from Peter's dome." 

Said Theocrite, " Would God that I 
Might praise him, that great way, and 
die ! " 

Niglit passed, day shone ; 
And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway : 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor 

night 
Now brings the voice of my delight." 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth. 
Spread his wings and sank to earth ; 

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, 
Lived there, and played the craftsman 
well ; 

And morning, evening, noon, and 

night. 
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew ; 
The man put off the stripling's hue ; 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay ; 



And ever o'er the trade he bent, 
And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God's will ; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, " A praise is in mine ear ; 
There is no doubt in it, no fear : 

" So sing old worlds, and so 
New worlds that from my footstool 
go. 

" Clearer loves sound other ways : 
I miss my little human praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off 

fell 
The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

'Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery. 

With his holy A'estments dight, 
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite : 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear, 

Since when, a boy, he ]ilied his trade, 
Till on his life the sickness weighed ; 

And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer : 

And rising from the sickness drear 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 

To the East with praise he turned, 
And on his sight the angel burned. 

" I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, 
And set thee here : I did not well. 

" Vainly I left my angel-sphere. 
Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

" Thy voice's praise seemed weak : it 

dropped — 
Creation's chorus stojiped ! 

"Go back and praise again 
The early way, while 1 remain. 

" With that weak voice of our disdain, 
Take up creation's pausing strain. 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



257 



" Back to the cell and poor employ : 
Resume the craftsman and the boy ! 

Theocrite grew old at home : 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome. 

One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 



A 'DEATH m THE DESERT. 

[Supposed of Pamphylax the Antio- 
chene : 

It is a parchment, of my rolls the 
fifth, 

Hath three skins glued together, is 
all Greek, 

And goeth from Epsilon down to Mii : 

Lies second in the surnamed Chosen 
Chest, 

Stained and conserved with juice of 
terebinth, 

Covered with cloth of hair, and let- 
tered Xi, 

From Xanthus, my wife's uncle, now 
at peace : 

Mu and Epsilon stand for my own 
name, 

I may not write it, but I make a cross 

To show I wait His coming, with the 
rest, 

And leave off here : beginneth Pam- 
phylax.] 

I said, " If one should wet his lips 

with wine. 
And slip the broadest plantain-leaf 

we find. 
Or else the lappet of a linen robe. 
Into the water-vessel, lay it right. 
And cool his forehead just above the 

eyes. 
The while a brother, kneeling either 

side. 
Should chafe each hand and try to 

make it warm, — 
He is not so far gone but he might 

speak." 

This did not happen in the outer cave, 
Nor in the secret chamber of the rock, 
"Where, sixty days since the decree 

was out. 
We had him, bedded on a camel-skin, 



And waited for his dying all the while; 
But in the midmost grotto : since 

noon's light 
Reached there a little, and we would 

not lose 
The last of what might happen on 

his face. 

I at the head, and Xanthus at the 

feet. 
With Valens and the Boy, had lifted 

him. 
And brought him from the chamber 

in the depths. 
And laid -him in the light where we 

might see : 
For certain smiles began about his 

mouth. 
And his lids moved, presageful of the 

end. 

Beyond, and half way up the mouth 

o' the cave. 
The Bactrian convert, having his 

desire. 
Kept watch, and made pretence to 

graze a goat 
That gave us milk, on rags of various 

herb, 
Plantain and quitch, the rocks' shade 

kee[)S alive : 
So that if any thief or soldier passed 
(Because the persecution was aware), 
Yielding tl)'3 goat up promptly with 

his life, 
Such man might pass on, joyful at a 

prize, 
Nor care to pry into the cool o' the 

cave. 
Outside was all noon and the burning 

blue. 

" Here is wine," answered Xanthus, 

— dropped a drop ; 

I stooped and placed the lap of cloth 

aright. 
Then chafed his right hand, and the 

Boy his left : 
But Valens had bethought him, and 

produced 
And broke a ball of nard, and made 

perfume. 
Only, he did — not so much wake, as 

— turn 

And smile a little, as a sleeper does 
If any dear one call him, touch his 

face — 
And smiles and loves, but will not be 

disturbed. 



258 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



Then Xanthus said a pnuer, Imt still 

he slept : 
It is the Xanthns that escaped to 

Kome, 
Was burned, and could not write the 

chronicle. 

Then the Boy sprang up from his 
knees, and ran, 

Stung by the splendor of a sudden 
tliought, 

And fetched the seA^enth plate of 
graven lead 

Out of the secret chamber, found a 
place, 

Pressing with finger on the deeper 
dints. 

And spoke, as 'twere his mouth pro- 
claiming first 

" I am the Resurrection and the Life." 

"Wliereat he opened his eyes Mide at 

once. 
And sat up of himself, and looked at 

us ; 
And thenceforth nobody pronounced 

a word : 
Only, outside, the Bactrian cried his 

cry 
Like the lone desert-bird that wears 

the ruff. 
As signal we were safe, from time to 

time. 

First he said, "If a friend declared 

to me. 
This my son Valens, this my other 

son, 
"Were James and Peter, — nay, de- 
clared as well 
This lad was very John, — I coidd 

believe ! 
— Could, for a moment, doubtlessly 

believe : 
So is myself withdrawn into my 

depths. 
The soul retreated from the perished 

brain 
"Whence it was wont to feel and use 

the world 
Through these dull members, done 

with long ago. 
Yet I myself remain ; I feel myself : 
And there is nothing lost. Let be. 

a while 1 " 

[This is the doctrine he was wont to 
teach, 



How divers persons witness in each 

n)Hn, 
Three soids which make up one soul : 

first, to wit, 
A soul of each and all the bodily 

parts. 
Seated therein, wliich works, and is 

what Does, 
And has the use of earth, and ends 

the man 
Downward : but, tending upward for 

advice, 
Grows into, and again is grown into 
By the next soul, which, seated in 

the l>rain, 
Useth the first with its collected use. 
And feeleth, tliinketh, willeth, — is 

what Knows : 
AYliich, duly tending upward in its 

turn , 
Grows into, and again is grown into 
By the last soul, that uses both the 

first. 
Subsisting whether they assist or no. 
And, constituting mans self, is what 

Is — 
And leans upon the former, makes 

it play, 
As that jilayed off the first : antl, 

tending uji. 
Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends 

the man 
Upward in that dread point of inter- 
course, 
Nor needs a place, for it returns to 

Him. 
What Does, what Knows, what Is ; 

three soids, one man. 
I give the glossa of Theotjpas.] 

And then, " A stick, once fire from 

end to v\u\ ; 
Now, ashes save the tip that holds a 

sjiark ! 
Yet, blow the spark, it runs back, 

spreads itself 
A little where the fire was : thus I 

urge 
The soul that sensed me, till it task 

once more 
What ashes of my brain have kept 

their shape. 
And these make effort on the last o' 

the fiesh. 
Trying to taste again the truth of 

things" — 
(He smiled) — "their very superficial 

truth ; 
As that ye are my sons, that it is lon^ 



Since James and Peter had release 
by death, 

And I am only he, yonrbrotlier John, 

Who saw and heard, and could re- 
member all. 

Remember all ! It is not much to say. 

What if the truth broke on me from 
above 

As once and ofttimes ? Such might 
hap again : 

Doubtlessly He might stand in pres- 
ence here, 

With head \yool-white, eyes, flame, 
and feet like brass. 

The s\\"ord and the seven stars, as I 
have seen — 

I who now shudder only and surmise 

• How did your brother bear that sight 
and live ? ' 

" If I live yet, it is for good, more love 
Through me to men : be naught but 

ashes here 
Tliat keep a while my semblance, who 

was John, — 
Still, when they scatter, there is left 

on earth 
No one alive who knew (considerthis!) 
— Saw with his eyes and handled 

with his hands 
Tliat which was from the first, the 

Word of Life. 
How will it be when none more saith 

' I saw ' ? 

" Such ever was love's way : to rise, it 

stoops. 
Since I, whom Christ's mouth taught, 

was bidden teach, 
I went, for many years, about the 

world. 
Saying, * It was so; so I heard and 

saw,' 
Speaking as the case asked: and men 

believed. 
Afterward came the message to my- 

- self 
In Patmos isle ; I was not bidden 

teach, 
But simply listen, take a book and 

write, 
Nor set down other than the given 

word, 
With nothing left to my arbitrament 
To choose or change : I wrote, and 

men believed. 
Then, for my time grew brief, no mes- 
sage more. 
No call to write again, I found a way, 



And, reasoning from my knowledge, 

merely taught 
Men should, for love's sake, in love's 

strength, believe ; 
Or I would i^en a letter to a friend 
And urge the same as friend, nor less 

nor more : 
Friends said I reasoned rightly, and 

believed. 
But at the last, why, I seemed left 

alive 
Like a sea-jelly weak on Patmos 

strand, 
To tell dry sea-beach gazers how I 

fared 
When there was mid-sea, and the 

mighty things ; 
Left to rei^eat, ' I saw, I heard, I 

knew,' 
And go all over the old ground again, 
With Antichrist already in the world. 
And many Antichrists, who answered 

prom]it 
' Am I not Jaspar as thyself art John ? 
Nay, young, whereas through age thou 

"mayest forget : 
Wherefore, explain, or how shall we 

believe V 
I never thought to call down fire on 

such, 
Or, as in wonderful and early days. 
Pick up the scorpion, tread the serpent 

dumb ; 
But patient stated much of the Lord's 

life 
Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it 

work : 
Since much that at the first, in deed 

and word. 
Lay simply and sufficiently exposed. 
Had grown (or else my soul was grown 

to match. 
Fed through such years, familiar with 

such light, 
Guarded and guided still to see and 

speak) 
Of new significance and fresh result ; 
What first were guessed as points, I 

now knew stars, 
And named them in the Gospel I have 

writ. 
For men said, ' It is getting long 

ago : ' 
' Where is the promise of His coming ? ' 

— asked 
These young ones in their strength, as 

loth to wait. 
Of me who, when their sires were 

born, was old. 



260 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



I, for I loved tliem, answered, joy- 
fully, 
Since I was there, and helpful in my 

age ; 
And, in the main, I think such men 

believed. 
Finally, thus endeavoring. I fell sick. 
Ye brought me here, and I supposed 

the end, 
And went to sleep with one thought 

that, at least, 
Though the whole earth should lie in 

wickedness, 
We had the truth, might leave the 

rest to God. 
Yet now I wake in such decrepitude 
As 1 had slidden down and fallen 

afar, 
Past even the presence of my former 

self. 
Grasping the while for stay at facts 

which snap. 
Till I am found away from my own 

world, 
Feeling for foot-hold through a blank 

profoimd. 
Along with unborn people in strange 

lands, 
"Who say — I hear said or conceive 

tliey say — 
* "Was John at all, and did he say he 

saw ? 
Assure us, ere we ask what he might 

see ! ' 

" And how shall I assure them ? Can 

they share 
— They, wlio have flesh, a veil of 

youth and strength 
About each spirit, that needs must 

bide its time. 
Living and learning still as years 

assist 
"Which wear the thickness thin, and 

let man see — 
With me who hardly am withheld at 

all. 
But sbudderingly, scarce a shred be- 
tween. 
Lie bare to the universal prick of 

light ? 
Is it for nothing we grow old and 

weak, 
"We whom God loves ? When pain 

ends, gain ends too. 
To me, that story — ay, that Life and 

Death 
Of which I wrote ' it was ' — to me, it 

is; 



— Is, here and now : I ajiprehend 

naught else. 
Is not God now i' the world his power 

first made ? 
Is not his love at issue still with sin, 
Visibly when a wrong is done on 

earth ? 
Love, wrong, and pain, what see I else 

around ? 
Yea, and the Resurrection and Uprise 
To the right hand of the throne — what 

is it beside. 
When such truth, breaking bounds, 

o'errtoods my soul, 
And, as I saw the "sin and death, even 

so 
See I the need yet transiencj^ of both, 
The good and glory consummated 

thence ? 
I saw the Power ; I see the Love, once 

weak. 
Resume the Power : and in this word 

' I see,' 
Lo, there is recognized the Spirit of 

both 
That moving o'er the spirit of man, 

unblinds 
His eye and bids him look. These 

are, I see ; 
But ye, the children, his beloved ones 

too. 
Ye need, — as I should use an optic 

glass 
I wondered at erewhile, somewhere i' 

the world. 
It ha<l been given a crafty smith to 

make ; 
A tube, he turned on objects brought 

too close. 
Lying confusedly insubordinate 
For the unassisted eye to master 

once : 
Look through his tube, at distance 

now they lay, 
Become succinct, distinct, so small, 

so clear ! 
Just thus, ye needs must apprehend 

what truth 
I see, reduced to plain historic fact, 
Diminished into clearness, proved a 

point 
And far away : ye would withdraw 

your sense 
From out eternity, strain it upon 

time, 
Then stand before that fact, that Life 

and Death, 
Stay there at gaze, till it dispart, dis- 

pread, 



A DEATH IN TEE DESERT. 



2G1 



As though a star should open out, all 

sides, 
Grow the ^Yorld on you, as it is my 

world. 

" For life, with all it yields of joy and 

woe, 
And ho]ie and fear, — believe the aged 

friend, — 
Is just our chance o' the prize of 

learning love, 
How love might be, hath been in- 
deed, and is ; 
And that we hold thenceforth to the 

uttermost 
Such prize despite the envy of the 

world, 
And, having gained truth, keep truth : 

that is all. 
But see the double way wherein we 

are led, 
How the soiil learns diversely from 

the flesh ! 
"With flesh, that hath so little time to 

sray, 
And yields mere basement for the 

soul's emprize. 
Expect prompt teaching. Helpful 

was the light, 
And warmth was cherishing and food 

was choice 
To every man's flesh, thousand years 

ago, 
As now to yours and mine ; the body 

sprang 
At once to the height, and staid : 

but the soul, — no ! 
Since sages who, this noontide, medi- 
tate 
In Rome or Athens, may descry some 

point 
Of the eternal power, hid yestereve : 
And, as thereby the power's whole 

mass extends. 
So much extends the ether floating 

o'er 
The love that tops the might, the 

Christ in God. 
Then, as new lessons shall be learned 

in these 
Till earth's work stop and useless 

time run out, 
So duly, daily, needs provision be 
For keeping the soul's prowess pos- 
sible. 
Building new barriers as the old de- 
cay, 
Saving us from evasion of life's 

proof, 



Putting the question ever, ' Does God 

love, 
And will ye hold that truth against 

the world ? ' 
Ye know there needs no second proof 

with good 
Gained for our flesh from any earthly 

source : 
We might go freezing, ages, — give us 

lire. 
Thereafter we judge fire at its full 

worth. 
And guard it safe through every 

chance, ye know ! 
That fable of Prometheus and his 

theft, 
How mortals gained Jove's fiery 

flower, grows old 
(I have been used to hear the pagans 

own) 
x\nd out of mind ; but fire, howe'er 

its birth, 
Here is it, precious to the sophist now 
Who laughs the myth of ^schjdus to 

scorn, 
As precious to those satyrs of his 

play, 
Who touched it in gay wonder at the 

thing. 
While Avere it so with the soul, — 

this gift of truth 
Once grasped, were this our soul's 

gain safe, and sure 
To prosper as the body's gain is 

wont, — 
Why, man's probation would con- 
clude his earth 
Crumble ; for he both reasons and 

decides, 
Weighs first, then chooses : will he 

give up fire 
For gold or purple once he knows its 

worth ? 
Could he give Christ up were His 

wortii as plain ? 
Therefore, I say, to test man, the 

proofs shift. 
Nor may he grasp that fact like other 

fact, 
And straightway in his life acknowl- 
edge it. 
As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire. 
Sigh ye, ' It had been easier once than 

now ? ' 
To give you answer I am left alive ; 
Look at me who was present from the 

first ! 
Ye knf)w what things I saw ; then 

came a test, 



262 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



My tirst, betitting me \ylio so had 

seen : 
'Forsake the Christ thou sawest trans- 
figured, Hixu 
"Who trod the sea and brought the 

dead to life ? 
What should wring this from thee ? ' 

— ye laugh and ask. 
What wrung it ? Even a torchlight 

and a noise, 
The sudden Roman faces, violent 

hands, 
And fear of what the Jews might do ! 

Just that, 
And it is written, ' I forsook and 

fled : ' 
There was my trial, and it ended 

thus. 
Ay, hut my soul had gained its truth, 

could gi'ow : 
Another vear or two, — what little 

child, 
What tender woman that had seen no 

least 
Of all my sights, hut harely heard 

them told. 
Who did not clasp the cross with a 

light laugh, 
Or wrap The burning robe round, 

thanking God ? 
Well, was truth safe forever, then ? 

Not so. 
Already had begun the silent work 
Wherei)y truth, deadened of its abso- 
lute blaze, 
Might need love's eye to pierce the 

o'erstretched doubt. 
Teachers were busy, whispering * All 

is true 
As the aged ones report ; but youth 

can reach 
Where age gropes dimly, weak with 

stir and strain. 
And the full doctrine slumbers till to- 
day.' 
Thus, what the Roman's lowered 

spear was found, 
A bar to me who touched and handled 

truth, 
Now i>roved the glozing of some new 

shrewd tongue, 
This Ebion, this Cerinthus or their 

mates. 
Till imminent was the outcry 'Save 

our Christ ! ' 
Whereon I stated much of the Lord's 

life 
Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it 

work. 



Such work done, as it will be, what 

comes next? 
What do I hear say, or conceive men 

saj', 
' Was John at all, and did he sav he 

saw ? 
Assure us, ere we ask what he might 

see ! ' 

" Is this indeed a burthen for late 

days, 
And may I help to bear it with vou 

all. 
Using my weakness which becomes 

your strength? 
For if a babe were born inside this 

grot. 
Grew to a boy here, heard us praise 

the sun. 
Yet had but yon sole glimmer in 

light's place, — 
One loving him and wishful he should 

learn, 
Would much rejoice himself was 

blinded first 
Month by month here, so made to 

understand 
How eyes, bo-rn darkling, apprehend 

amiss : 
I think I could explain to such a 

child 
There Avas more glow outside than 

gleams he caught, 
\Y, nor need urge ' I saw it, so be- 
lieve ! ' 
It is a heavy burthen you .shall bear 
In latter days, new lands, or old 

grown strange. 
Left without me, which must be very 

soon. 
What is the doubt, my brothers? 

Quick with it ! 
I see you stand conversing, each new 

"face. 
Either in fields, of yellow summer 

■ eves, 
On islets yet unnamed amid the sea ; 
Or i>ace for shelter 'neath a portico 
Out of the crowd in some enormous 

town 
Where now the larks sing in a soli- 
tude ; 
Or muse upon blank heaps of stone 

and sand 
Idly conjectured to be Ephesus : 
And no one asks his fellow any 

more 
' Where is the promise of His com- 
ing?' but 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



2G3 



'Was He revealed in any of His 

lives, 
As Power, as Love, as Influencing 

Soul ? ' 

*' Quick, for time presses, tell the 

whole mind ont. 
And let ns ask and answer and be 

saved ! 
My book speaks on, because it cannot 

pass ; 
One listens quietly, nor scoffs but 

pleads 
* Here is a tale of things done ages 

since : 
What truth was ever told the second 

day ? 
Wonders, that would prove doctrine, 

go for naught. 
Remains the doctrine, love ; well, we 

must love, 
And what we love most, power and 

love in one. 
Let us acknowledge on the record 

here. 
Accepting these in Christ : must 

Christ tlien be ? 
Has He been ? Did not we ourselves 

make Him ? 
Our mind receives but what it holds, 

no more. 
First of the love, then ; we acknowl- 
edge Christ — 
A proof we comprehend His love, a 

proof 
We had such love already in our- 
selves, 
Knew first what else we should not 

recognize. 
'Tis mere projection from man's in- 
most mind, 
And, wliat he loves, thus falls re- 
flected back, 
Becomes accounted somewhat out of 

him ; 
He throws it up in air, it drops down 

earth's. 
With shape, name, stor3^ added, man's 

old way. 
How prove vou Christ came otherwise 

at least ? 
Next try the power : He made and 

rules the world : 
Certes there is a world once made, 

now ruled. 
Unless things have been ever as we 

see. 
Our sires declared a charioteer's 

yoked steeds 



Brought the sun up the east and down 

the west, 
Which onh" of itself now rises, sets, 
As if a hand impelled it and a will, — 
Thus they long thought, they who 

had Avill and hands : 
But the new question's whisper is 

distinct. 
Wherefore must all force needs be 

like ourselves ? 
We have the hands, the will ; what 

made and drives 
The sun is force, is law, is named, not 

known, 
While will and love we do know ; 

marks of these. 
Eye-witnesses attest, so books de- 
clare — 
As that, to punish or reward our race, 
The sun at imdue times arose or set 
Or else stood still : what do not men 

affirm ? 
But earth requires as urgenth^ reward 
Or punishment to-day as years ago, 
And none exiiects the sun will inter- 
pose : 
Therefore it was mere passion and 

mistake. 
Or erring zeal for right, which changed 

the truth. 
Go back, far, farther, to the birth of 

things ; 
Ever the will, the intelligence, the 

love, 
Man's ! — which he gives, supposing 

he but finds. 
As late he gave head, body, hands, 

and feet. 
To help these in what forms he called 

his gods. 
First, Jove's brow, Juno's eyes were 

swept away, 
But Jove's wrath, Juno's pride con- 
tinued long ; 
As last, will, power, and love dis- 
carded these. 
So law in turn discards power, love, 

and will. 
What proveth God is otherwise at 

least ? 
All else, projection from the mind of 

man ! ' 
Nay, do not give me wine, for I am 

strong, 
But place my gospel where I put my 

hands. 

" I say that man was made to grow, 
not stop ; 



264 



A DEATH IN TEE DESERT. 



That help, he needed once, and needs 

no more, 
Havinj? grown but an inch by, is 

withdrawn : 
For he hath new needs, and new 

helps to these. 
This imports solely, man should 

mount on each 
New height in view ; the help where- 
by he mounts, 
The laiider-ruug his foot has left, may 

fall, 
Since all things suffer change save 

God the Truth. 
Man apprehends Him newly at each 

stage 
"Whereat earth's ladder drops, its ser- 
vice done ; 
And nothing shall prove twice what 

once was jiroved. 
You stick a garden-plot with ordered 

twigs 
To show" inside lie germs of herbs 

unborn, 
And check the careless step would 

spoil their birth ; 
But when herbs wave, the guardian 

twigs may go. 
Since should ye doubt of virtues, 

question kinds, 
It is no longer for old twigs ye look, 
Which proved once underneath lay 

store of seed, 
But to the herb's self, by what light 

ye boast. 
For what fruit's signs are. This 

book's fruit is plain. 
Nor miracles need prov<; it any more. 
Doth the fruit show ? Then miracles 

bade 'ware 
At first of root and stem, saved both 

till now 
From trampling ox, rough boar, and 

wanton goat. 
What ? Was man made a wheelwork 

to wind up, - 
And be discharged, and straight 

wound up anew ? 
No! — grown, his growth lasts; 

taught, he ne'er forgets : 
May learn a thousand things, not 

twice the same. 
This might be pagan teaching : now 

hear mine. 

" I say, that as the babe, you feed a 
while, 

Becomes a hoy and fit to feed him- 
self, 



So, minds at first must be spoon-fed 

with truth : 
When they can eat, babe's nurture is 

withdrawn. 
I fed the babe whether it would or 

no : 
I bid the bo}^ or feed himself or starve, 
I cried once, ' That ye may believe in 

Christ, 
Behold this blind man shall receive 

his sight ! ' 
I cry now, ' Urgest thou, for I am 

shrcicd, 
And smile at stories how John's tcord 

could cure — 
Repeat tkut miracle and take mif faith ? ' 
I say, that miracle was duh" wrouglit 
When, save for it, no faith was possi- 
ble. 
Whether a change were wrought i' 

the shows o' the world. 
Whether the change came from our 

minds which see 
Of shows o' the world so much as 

and no more 
Than God wills for His purpose, — 

(what do I 
See now, suppose you, there where 

you see rock 
Round us?) —I know not ; such was 

the effect. 
So faith grew, making void more 

miracles 
Because too much : the^' would com- 
pel, not help. 
I say, the acknowledgment of God in 

Christ 
Accepted by thy reason, solves for 

thee 
All questions in the earth and out of 

it, 
And has so far advanced thee to be 

wise. 
Wouldst thou unprove this to re- 

jn-ove the proved ? 
In life's mere minute, with power to 

use that proof, 
Leave knowledge and revert to how 

it sprung? 
Thou hast it ; use it and forthwith, or 

die ! 
For I say, this is death and the sole 

death, 
When a man's loss comes to him from 

his gain, 
Darkness from light, from knowledge 

ignorance. 
And lack of love from love made 

manifest ; 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



265 



A lamp's death when, replete with 

oil, it chokes ; 
A stomach's when, surcharged with 

food, it starves. 
With ignorance was surety of a cure. 
"When man, appalled at nature, ques- 
tioned first 
'What if there lurk a might behind 

this might ? ' 
He needed satisfaction God could 

give, 
And did give, as ye have the written 

word : 
But when he finds might still redouble 

might, 
Yet asks, ' Since all is might, what 

use of will ? ' 
— "Will, the one source of might, — he 

being man 
"With a man's will and a man's might, 

to teach 
In little how the two combine in 

large, — 
That man has turned round on him- 
self and stands : 
"Which in the course of nature is, to 

die. 

" And when man questioned, ' "What 

if there be love 
Behind the will and might, as real as 

they ? ' — 
He needed satisfaction God could 

give, 
And did give, as ye have the written 

word : 
But when, beholding that love every- 
where. 
He reasons, ' Since such love is every- 
where, 
And since ourselves can love and 

would be loved, 
"We ourselves make the love, and 

Christ was not,' — 
How shall ye help this man who 

knows himself. 
That he must love and would be loved 

again. 
Yet, owning his own love that proveth 

Christ, 
Kejecteth Christ through verv need of 

Him ? 
The lamp o'erswims with oil, the 

stomach flags 
Loaded with nurture, and that man's 

soul dies. 

"If he rejoin, 'But this was all the 
while 



A trick ; The fault was, first of all, in 

thee. 
Thy story of the places, names and 

dates, 
"Where, when, and how the ultimattj 

truth had rise, 

— Thy prior truth, at last discovered 

none, 
"V\"hence now the second suffers detri- 
ment. 
AYhat good of giving knowledge if, 

because 
O' the manner of the gift, its profit 

fail ? 
And why refuse what modicum of 

help 
Had stopped the after-doubt, impossi- 
ble 
I' the face of truth — truth absolute, 

uniform ? 
^Yhy must I hit of this and miss of 

that. 
Distinguish just as I be weak or 

strong. 
And not ask of thee and have answer 

prompt, 
"Was this once, was it not once? — 

then and now 
And evermore, plain truth from man 

to man . 
Is John's procedure just the heathen 

bard's? 
Put question of his famous play again 
How for the ephemerals' sake, Jove's 

fire was filched. 
And carried in a cane and brought to 

earth : 
The fact is in the fable, cry tl-e wise, 
Mortals obtained the boon, .<-o much is 

fact, 
Though fire be spirit and produced on 

earth. 
As with the Titan's, so now with thy 

tale : 
"Why breed in us perplexity, mistake, 
Nor tell the whole truth in the proper 

words ? ' 

" I answer, Have ye yet to argue out 
The very primal thesis, plainest law, 

— Man is not God but hath God's end 

to serve, 
A master to obey, a course to take. 
Somewhat to cast off, somewhat to 

become ? 
Grant this, then man must pass from 

old to new. 
From vain to real, from mistake to 

fact, 



2(;g 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



From what once seemed good, to what 

now ]irove.s best : 
How could mati have progression 

otherwise ? 
Before the point was mooted ' What 

is God ? ' 
No savage man inquired * What is 

myself?' 
Much less rei)lied, ' First, last, and 

best of things.' 
Man takes that title now if he believes 
Might can exist with neither will nor 

love, 
In God's case — what he names now 

Nature's Law — 
While in himself he recognizes love 
No less than might and will : and 

rightly takes. 
Since if man prove the sole existent 

thing 
Where these combine, whatever their 

degree, 
However weak the might or will or 

love, 
So they be found there, put in evi- 
dence, — 
He is as surely higher in the scale 
Than anv might with neither love nor 

will. 
As life, apparent in the poorest midge 
(When the faint dust-speck tiits, ye 

guess its wing). 
Is marvellous beyond dead Atlas' 

self — 
Given to the nobler midge for resting- 
place ! 
Thus, man proves best and highest — 

God, in tine, 
And thus the victor^^ leads but to de- 
feat. 
The gain to loss, best rise to the worst 

fall. 
His life becomes impossible, which is 

death. 

" But if, appealing thence, he cower, 

avoucli 
He is mere man, and in humility 
Neither may know God nor mistake 

himself ; 
I point to the immediate consequence 
And sav, bv such confession straight 

befalls 
Into man's place, a thing nor God nor 

beast, 
Made to know that he can know 

and not more : 
Lower than (Jod who knows all and 

can all, 



Higher than beasts which know and 
can so far 

As each beast's limit, perfect to an 
end, 

Nor conscious that the3' know, nor 
craving more ; 

While man knows partly but con- 
ceives beside, 

Creeps ever on from fancies to the 
fact, 

And in this striving, this converting 
air 

Into a solid he may grasp and use. 

Finds i^rogress, man's distinctive mark 
alone. 

Not God's, and not the beasts' : God 
is, they are, 

Man partly is and wholly hopes to be. 

Such progress could no more attend 
his soul 

Were all it struggles after found at 
first 

And guesses changed to knowledge 
absolute. 

Than motion wait his body, were all 
else 

Than it the solid earth on every side, 

Where now through space he moves 
from rest to rest. 

Man, therefore, thus conditioned, 
must expect 

He could not, wliat he knows now, 
know at first ; 

What he considers that he knows to- 
day, 

Come but to-morrow, he will find mis- 
known ; 

Getting increase oWjnowledge, since 
he learns 

Because he lives, which is to be a 
man. 

Set to instruct himself by his past 
self : 

First, like the brute, obliged Xiy facts 
to le .rn. 

Next, as man may, obliged by his 
own mind, 

Bent, habit, nature, knowledge turned 
to law. 

God's gift was that man should con- 
ceive of truth. 

And yearn to gain it, catching at mis- 
take. 

As midway help till he reach fact in- 
deed. 

The statuary ere he mould a sliape 

Boasts a like gift, the shape's idea, 
and next 

The asjiiration to produce the same • 



A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 



267 



So, takin;? clay, he calls his shape 

thereout, 
Cries ever 'Now I have the thing I 

see : ' 
Yet all the while goes changing what 

was wrought, 
From falsehood like the truth, ' to 

truth itself. 
How were it had he cried 'I see no 

face, 
No hreast, no feet i' the Ineffectual 

clay ? ' 
Bather commend him that he clapped 

nis hands, 
And laughed ' It is my shape and 

lives again ! ' 
EnjoNed the falsehood, touched it on 

to truth, 
Until yourselves applaud the flesh 

indeed 
In what is still flesh-imitating clay. 
Bight in you, right in him, such way 

he man's ! 
God only makes the live shape at a 

jet. 
"Will ye renounce this pact of crea- 

tureshiji ? 
The pattern on the Mount suhsists no 

more, 
Seemed a while, then returned to 

nothingness ; 
But copies, Moses strove to make 

therehy, 
Serve still and are replaced as time 

requires : 
By these, make newest vessels, reach 

the type ! 
If ye demur, this judgment on your 

head. 
Never to reach the ultimate, angels' 

law, 
Indulging every instinct of the soul 
There where law, life, joy, impulse 

are one thing ! 

" Such is the burthen of the latest 

time. 
I have survived to hear it with my 

ears, 
Answer it with my lips : does this 

suffice ? 
For if there be a further woe than 

such, 
Wherein my brothers struggling need 

a hand, 
So long as any pulse is left in mine. 
May I he absent even longer yet, 
Plucking the blind ones back from 

the abyss, 



Though I should tarry a new hun- 
dred years ! " 

But he was dead : 'twas about noon, 

the day 
Somewhat declinirg : we five buried 

him 
That eve, and then, dividing, went 

five ways, 
And I, disguised, returned to Ephe- 

sus. 

By this, the cave's mouth must be 

filled with sand. 
Valens is lost, I know not of his 

trace ; 
The Bactrian was but a wild cLildish 

man. 
And could not write nor speak, but 

only loved : 
So, lest the memory of this go quite. 
Seeing that I to-morrow fight the 

beasts, 
I tell the same to Phoebas, whom 

believe ! 
For many look again to find that face, 
Beloved John's to whom I minis- 
tered, 
Somewhere in life about the world ; 

they err : 
Either mistaking what was darkly 

spoke 
At ending of his book, as he relates. 
Or misconceiving somewhat of this 

speech 
Scattered from mouth to mouth, as I 

suppose. 
Believe ye will not see him any more 
About the world with his divine re- 
gard ! 
For all was as I say, and now the 

man 
Lies as he lay once, breast to breast 

with God. 



[Cerinthus read and mused ; one 
added this : — 

" If Christ, as thou affirmest, be of 

men 
Mere man, the first and best but 

nothing more, — 
Account Him, for reward of what He 

was. 
Now and forever, wretehedest of all. 
For see ; Himself conceived of life as 

love. 



IG8 



FEARS AND SCRUPLE S. 



Conceived of love as what must enter 

in, 
Fill up, make one with His each soul 

He loved : 
Thus much for man's joy, all men's 

joy for Him. 
Well, He is gone, thou sayest, to fit 

reward. 
But by this time are many souls set 

free, 
And very many still retained alive : 
Nay, should His coming be delayed 

a while. 
Say, ten years longer (twelve years, 

some compute) 
See if, for every finger of thy hands, 
There be not found, that day the 

world shall end. 
Hundreds of souls, each holding by 

Christ's word 
That He will grow incorporate with 

all, 
With me as Pamphylax, with him as 

John, 
Groom for each bride ! Can a mere 

man do this ? 
Yet Christ saith, this He lived and 

vlied to do. 
Call Christ, then, the illimitable God, 
Or lost ! " 

But 'twas Cerintlms that is lost.] 



FEARS AND SCRUPLES. 



I. 
Hebe's my case. Of old T used to 
love him, 
This same imseen friend, before I 
knew : 
Dream there was none like him, none 
above him, — 
Wake to hope and trast my dream 
was true. 



Loved I not his letters full of beauty ? 
Not his actions famous far and 
wide ? 
Absent, he would know I vowed him 
duty ; 
Present, he would tind me at his 
side. 



Pleasant fancy ! for I had but letters. 

Only kn*-w of actions liy hearsay : 
He himself was busied with my "bet- 
ters ; 
What of that ? My turn must come 
some daj'. 



"Some day" proving— nc day! 
Here's the puzzle. 
Passed and passed my turn is. 
Why complain ? 
He's so busied ! If I could but muz- 
zle 
People's foolisli mouths that give 
me pain ! 



V. 

(hear them !) 



You a 



'•Letters?' 

judge of writing? 
Ask the experts ! How thpy shake 
the head 
O'er these characters, your iriend's 
in<liting — 
Call them forgery from Aij 7- 1 



"Actions? Where's your certain 
proof" (they bother) 
"He, of all 3'ou find so great and 
good. 
He, he only, claims this, that, the 
other 
Action — claimed by men, a multi* 
tude?" 

VTT. 

I can simply wish I might refute 
you, 
Wish niy friend would, — by a word, 
a wink, — 
Bid me stop that foolish mouth,— 
you brute you ! 
He keeps absent, — why, I cannot 
think. 

A-III. 

Never mind ! Though foolishness 
may flout me. 
One thing's sure enough : 'tis 
neither frost. 
No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn 
from out me 
Thanks for truth — though false- 
hootl, gained — though lost. 



ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. 



2G0 



All my days, I'll go tlie softlier, sad- 
iier, 
For That dream's sake ! How for- 
get the thrill 
Through and through me as I thought 
''Thegladlier 
Lives mv frieud because I love him 
still ! " 



Ah, but there's a menace some one 
utters ! 
" What and if your friend at home 
play tricks ? 
Peep at * hide-and-seek behind the 
shutters ? 
Mean your eyes should pierce 
through solid bricks ? 



" What and if he, frowning, wake 
you, dreamy 
Lay on you the blame that bricks — 
' conceal ? 
Say * At lioM I saw who did not see me, 
hoes see now, and presently shall 
feeir 

xn. 
" "Wliy, that makes your friend a 
monster ! " say you : 
Had his house no window ? At 
first nod. 
Would you not have hailed him?" 
Hush, I pray you ! 
What if this friend happen to be — 
God? 



ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. 

I AM a goddess of the ambrosial 

courts, 
And save by Here, Queen of Pride, 

surpassed 
By none whose temples whiten this 

the world. 
Through heaven I roll my lucid moon 

along : 
I shed in hell o'er my pale people 

peace ; 
On earth I, caring for the creatures, 

guard 
Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox- 
bitch sleek. 



And every feathered mother's cal- 
low brood. 

And all that love green haunts and 
' loneliness. 

Of men, the chaste adore me, hang- 
j ing crowns 

Of poppies red to blackness, bell and 
I stem, 

; Upon my image at Athenai here : 
1 And this deadYouth, A.sclepios bends 
I alx)ve. 

Was dearest to me. He, my bus- 
kined step 

To follow through the wild-wood 
leafy ways. 

And chase the panting stag, or swift 
with darts 

Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leop- 
ard low. 

Neglected homage to another god : 

Whence Aphrodite, by no miilnight 
smoke 

Of tapers lulled, in jealousy de- 
spatched 

A noisome lust that, as the gadbee 
stings. 

Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for 
himself 

The son of Theseus her great absent 
spouse. 

Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage 

Against the fury of the Queen, she 
judged 

Life insupportable ; and, pricked at 
heart 

An Amazonian stranger's race should 
dare 

To scorn her, perished by the murder- 
ous cord : 

Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a 
scroll 

The fame of him her swerving made 
not swerve. 

And Theseus, read, returning, and 
believed, 

And exiled, in the blindness of his 
wrath. 

The man without a crime who, last as 
first, 

Loyal, di^nilged not to his sire the 
truth. 

Xow Theseus from Poseidon had olv 
tained 

That of his wishes should be grantetl 
three. 

And one he imprecated straight — 
" Alive 

May ne'er Hippolutos reach other 
lands ! " 



270 



ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. 



Poseidon heard, ai ai ! And scarce 

the prince 
Had stepped into the fixed boots of 

the car 
That give the feet a staj^ against the 

strength 
Of the Henerian horses, and aronnd 
His body tinng the rein, and urged 

their speed 
Along the rocks and shingles of the 

shore, 
When from the gaping wave a mon- 
ster tlung 
His obscene bod}^ in the coursers' 

path. 
These, mad with terror, as the sea- 

l)ull sprawled 
Wallowing about their feet, lost care 

of him 
That reared them ; and the master- 
chariot-pole 
Snapping beneath their plunges like a 

reed, 
Hippolutos. whose feet were tram- 
melled fast. 
Was j-et dragged forward by the 

circling rein 
Which either hand directed ; nor they 

quenched 
The frenzy of their flight before each 

trace, 
Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woe- 
ful car. 
Each bowlder-stone, sharp stub, and 

spiny shell. 
Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed 

amid the sands 
On that detested beach, was bright 

witli blood 
And morsels of his flesh : then fell the 

steeds 
Head-foremost, crashing in their 

mooned fronts, 
Shivering with sweat, each white eye 

horror-fixed. 
His people, who had witnessed all 

afar. 
Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. 
But when his sire, too swoln with 

j)ride, rejoice(i 
(Indomitable as a man foredoomed) 
That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his 

prayer, 
I, in a flood of glory visible, 
Stood o'er my dying votary, and, deed 
By deed, revealed, as all took place, 

tlie Truth. 
Then Theseus lay the woefullest of 

men. 



And worthily ; but ere the death- veils 

hid 
His face, the murdered prince full 

pardon breathed 
To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai 

wails. 

So I, who ne'er forsake my votaries, 

Lest to tlie cross-way none the honey- 
cake 

Should tender, nor pour out the dog's 
hot life ; 

Lest at my fane the priests disconso- 
late 

Should dress my image with some 
faded poor 

Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare 
object 

Such slackness to my worshippers who 
turn 

Elsewhere the trusting heart and 
loaded hand. 

As they had climbed Olumpos to re- 
port 

Of Artemis and nowhere found her 
throne — 

I interposed : and, this eventful 
night — 

(While round the funeral p.yre the 
populace 

Stood with fierce light on their black 
robes which bound 

Each sobbing head, while yet their 
hair tlun^ clipped 

O'er the dead body of their withered 
prince. 

And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated 

On the cold hearth, his brow cold a3 
the slab 

'Twas bruised on, groaned away the 
heavy grief — 

As the pyre fell, and down the cross 
logs crashed 

Sending a crowd of sparkles through 
the night. 

And the gay fire, elate with mastery. 

Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted 
jars 

Of wine, dissolving oils and frankin- 
cense, 

And splendid gums like gold), — my 
potency 

Conveyed the perished man to my re- 
treat 

In the thrice-venerable forest liere. 

And this white-bearded sage who 
squeezes now 

The berried plant, is Phoibos' son of 
fame, 



PTIETDIPPIDES. 



271 



Asclepio«, whom my radiant brother 

taught 
The doctrine of each herb and flower 

and root, 
To know their secret'st yirtue and 

express 
The saving soul of all : who so has 

soothed 
"With 1 avers the torn brow and mur- 
dered cheeks, 
Composed the hair and brought its 

gloss again, 
And called the red bloom to the pale 

skin back. 
And laid the strips and jagged ends 

of flesh 
Even once more, and slacked the 

sinew's knot 
Of every tortured limb — that now he 

lies 



As if mere sleep possessed him under- 
neath 

These interwoven oaks and pines. 
Oh cheer, 

Divine presenter of the healing rod, 

Thy snake, with ardent throat and 
lulling eye. 

Twines his lithe spires around ! I 
say. much cheer ! 

Proceed thou with thy wisest pharma- 
cies ! 

And ye, white crowd of woodland 
sisrer-nymphs, 

Ply, as the sage directs, these buds 
and leaves 

That strew the turf around the twain ! 
AVhile I 

Await, in fitting silence, the event. 



PHEIDIPPIDES. 



^atpere, vLnoifi-ev. 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! 
Gods of my birthplace, demons and heroes, honor to all ! 
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise 
— Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the fegis and spear ! 
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, i^raised be your peer, 
Now. henceforth, and forever, — O latest to whom I upraise 
Hand and heart and voice ! For Athens, leave pasture and flock ! 
Present to help, potent to save. Pan — patron I call ! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return ! 

See, 'Tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks ! 

Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, 

" Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid ! 

Persia has come, we are here, where is She ? "' Your command I obeyed. 

Ran and raced : like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, 

Was the space between city and city : two days, two nights did I burn 

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and x\^ peaks. 

Into their midst I broke : breath served but for " Persia has come ! 

Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth ; 

Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink, 

T)vo]} into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, 

Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stujiid, the stander-by ? 

Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's 

brink ? 
How, — when ? No care for my limbs ! — there's lightning in all and some — 
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth ! " 

O my Athens — Sparta love thee ? Did Sparta respond ? 
Every face of her leered in a furrow of euA^y, mistrust. 



272 PHEIDIPPIDES. 



Malice, — each eye of her gaA'e me its glitter of gratified hate ! 
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood 
Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, au inch from dry wood : 
*' Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 
Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond 
Swing of thy spear ? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must ' ! " 

No bolt launched from Olumpos ! Lo, their answer at last ! 
" Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta befriend ? 
Nowise pre(npitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake ! 
Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the Gods ! 
Ponder that precept of old, ' No warfare, whatever the odds 
In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take 
Full-circle her state in the sky ! ' Already she rounds to it fast : 
Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment suspend." 

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had mouldered to ash I 
That sent a blaze through my blood ; off, off and away was I back, 
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile ! 
Yet " O Gods of my land ! " I cried, as each hillock and plain, 
"Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, 
** Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile ? 
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation ! Too rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack ! 

" Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to inwreathe 
Brows made bold by your leaf ! Fade at tha Persian's foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave ! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract ! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain ! What matter if slacked 
My speed may hardh- be, for homage to crag and to cave 
No deit}- deigns to drape with verdure, — at least I can breathe, 
Fear inthee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute ! " 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge ; 

Gully and gap, I clambered and cleared till, sudden, bar 

Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 

Right ! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fi.siiure across : 

" Where I could enter, there I depart by ! Night in the fosse ? 

Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise ! No bridge 

Better ! "' — when — ha ! what was it I came on, of wonders that are ? 

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan ! 

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof : 

All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl 

Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, 

As. under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 

" Halt, Pheidippides ! " —halt I did, my brain of a whirl : 

" Hither to me ! Why pale in my presence ? " he gracious began : 

" How is it, —Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? 

" Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast ! 
Wherefore ? Than I what godship to Athens more hel])ful of old ? 
Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Put Pan to the test ! 
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 
In the tem]iles and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, ' The Goat-God saith : 
AVhen Persia — so nuu'h as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea. 
Then i)raise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, 
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold I ' 



PHETDIPPIDES. 27 



" Say Pan saitli : ' Let this, foreshowing the place, he the pledge ! ' " 
(Gay, the liheral hand hekl out this herbage I bear 
— Fennel, whatever it bode — I grasped it a-tremble with dew.) 
" While, as for thee ..." But enough ! He was gone. If I ran hither- 
to— 
Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. 
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge I 
Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! myself have a guerdon rare ! 



Then spoke Miltiades. " And thee, best runner of Greece, 

"Whose limbs did duty indeed, — what gift is ja-oiuised thyself? 

Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her sou ! '* 

Rosily blushed the youth : he paused : but, lifting at lengtli 

His eves from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength 

Into the utterance — " Pan spoke thus : ' For what thou hast done 

Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee release 

From the racer's toil, no \Tilgar reward in praise or in pelf ! ' 

" I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind ! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow, — 
Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep, 
Whelm her away forever ; and then, —no Athens to save, — 
Marr3" a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, — 
Hie to my house and home : and, when my children shall creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding hiui — so ! " 



Unforeseeing one ! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day : 
So, when Persia was dust, all cried " To Akropolis ! 
Run, Pheidippides, one race more ! the meed is thy due ! 
* Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout ! " He flung down his shield, 
Ran like fire once more : and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field 
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, 
Till in he broke : " Rejoice, we conquer ! " Like wine through clay, 
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss ! 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute 

Is still " Rejoice ! " — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 

So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man 

Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so 

well 
He sa\y the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell 
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began. 
So to end gloriously —once to shout, thereafter be mute : 
" Athens is saved ! " — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 



274 



THE PATRIOT. 



THE PATRIOT 

AX OLD STORY. 



It was roses, roses, all the way, 
With mjrtle mixed in my path like 
mad : 
The house-roofs seemed to heave and 
sway, 
The church-spires flamed, such flags 
they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 



II. 

The air hroke into a mist with bells, 
The old walls rocked with the crowd 
and cries. 
Had I sai<l, "Good folk, mere noise 
repels — 
But give me your sun from yonder 
skies ! " 
They had answered " And afterward, 
what else?" 



Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to 
keep ! 
Naught man could do, have I left un- 
done : 
And you see ray harvest, what I 
reap 
This very day, now a year is run. 



IV. 

There's nobody on the house-tops 

now — 

Just a palsied few at the windows 

set ; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 

At the Shambles' Gate — or, better 

yet. 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 



I go in the rain, and, more than 

needs, 

A rope cuts both my wrists behind ; 

And I Think, by the feel, my forehead 

bleeds, 

For they fling, whoever has a mind. 

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 



VI. 

Thus I entered, and thus I go ! 

In triumphs, peoi)le have drojiped 
down dead. 
" Paid by the world, what dost thou 
owe 
Me ? ' ' — God might question ; now 
instead, 
'Tis God shall rei)a5' : I am safer so. 



POPULARITY. 



I. 

Stand still, true poet that you are ! 
I know you ; let me try and draw 
you. " 
Some night you'll fail us : when afar 
You rise, remember one man saw 
you. 
Knew 30U, and named a star ! 



Why 



ir. 
My star, God's glow-worm ! 
extend 

That loving hand of His which leads 
you. 
Yet locks you safe from end to end 
Of this dark world, unless He needs 
you, 
Just saves your light to spend ? 

III. 
His clinched hand shall unclose at 
last, 
I know, and let out all the beauty : 
My poet holds the future fast, 

Accepts the coming ages' duty, 
Their present for this past. 

IV. 

That day, the earth's feast-master's 
brow 
Shall clear, to God the chalice rais- 
ing ; 
" Others give best at first, Imt Thou 

Forever set'st our table praising, 
Keep'st the good wine till now ! " 



Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand. 
With few or uoue to watch aud 
wonder : 



PISGAH-SIGHTS. 



275 



I'll say — a fisher, on the sand 
By Tyre the old, with ocean-plun- 
der, 
A netful, brought to land. 



Who has not heard how Tyrian shells 
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes 

Whereof one drop worked miracles. 
And colored like Astarte's eyes 

Raw silk the merchant sells ? 



And each hy-stander of them all 

Could criticise, and quote tradition 
How depths of blue sublimed some 
pall 
— To get which, pricked a king's 
ambition ; 
Worth sceptre, crown, and ball. 



Yet there's the dye, in that rough 
mesh, 
The sea has only just o'er-whis- 
pered ! 
Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping 
fresh, 
As if they still the water's lisp 
heard 
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. 



IX. 

Enough to furnish Solomon 
Such hangings for his cedar-house, 

That, when gold-robed he took the 
throne 
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse 

Might swear his presence shone 



Most like the centre-spike of gold 
Which burns deep in the blue-bell's 
womb 

What time, with ardors manifold. 
The bee goes singing to her groom, 

Drunken and overbold. 



XI. 

Mere conchs ! not fit for warp or 
woof ! 
Till cunning come to pound and 
squeeze 
And clarify, —refine to proof 

The liquor filtered by degrees. 
While the world stands aloof. 



And there's the extract, flasked and 
fine, 
And priced and salable at last ! 
And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes 
combine 
To paint the future from the past, 
Put blue into their line. 



Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle 
eats : 
Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns 
his cup : 
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure 
feats, — 
Both gorge. Who fished the murex 

U])? 

What porridge had John Keats ? 



PISGAH-SIGHTS. 1. 



Over the ball of it. 

Peering and prying. 
How I see all of it, 

Life there, outh'ing ! 
Roughness and smoothness, 

Shine and defilement, 
Grace and uncouthness ; 

One reconcilement. 



Orbed as appointed. 

Sister with brother 
Joins, ne'er disjointed 

One from the other. 
All's lend-and-borrow ; 

Good, see, wants evil, 
Joy demands sorrow. 

Angel wttds devil ! 



" Which things must — why be ? " 

Vain our endeavor ! 
So shall things aye be 

As they were ever. 
" Such things should .<?o be ! " 

Sage our desistence ! 
Rough-smooth let globe be, 

Mixed — man's existence ! 



27G 



P/SGAfl-Siaf/TS 



IV. 

Man — wise and foolish, 

Lover and scorner, 
Docile and mulish — 

Keep each his corner ! 
Honey j^et gall of ir ! 

There's the life lying, 
And I see all of it," 

Only, I'm dying ! 



PISGAH-SIGHTS. 2. 



Could I hnt live again, 

Twice my life over, 
Would I once strive again ? 

Would not I cover 
Quietly all of it — 

Greed and arahirion — 
So, from the pall of it, 

Pass to fruition ? 



' Soft ! " I'd say, " Soul mine ! 

Threescore and ten years, 
Let the hliiul mole mine 

Digging out deniers ! 
Let the (lazed hawk soar. 

Claim the sun's rights too ! 
Turf 'tis thy walk's o'er. 

Foliage thy tiiglit's to." 



III. 

Only a learner. 

Quick one or slow one, 
Just adiscerner, 

I would teach no one. 
I am earth's native : 

No re-arranging it ! 
/ be creative. 

Chopping and changing it? 



IMarch, men, my fellows ! 

Those who, ahove me 
(Distance so mellows). 

Fancy you love me : 
Those who, helow jue 

(Distance makes great so), 
Free to forego me, 

Fancy you hate so ! 



Praising, reviling, 

A\'orst head and best head, 
Past me defiling. 

Never arrested, 
Wanters, abounders, 

March, in gay mixture, 
Men, njy surrounders ! 

I am the fixture. 



vr. 
So shall I fear thee, 

Mightiness j-onder ! 
Mock-sun — more near thee. 

What is to wonder? 
So shall I love thee, 

Down in the dark, — lest 
Glowworm I prove thee. 

Star that now sparkiest ! 



PISGAH-SIGHTS. 3. 



Good, to forgive ; 

Best, to forget ! 

Living, we fret ; 
Dying, we live. 
Fretless and free. 

Soul, clap thy pinion ! 

Earth have (lominion, 
Body, o'er thee ! 



n. 

Wander at will, 

Day after day, — 

Wander away, 
Wandering still — 
Sold that canst soar ! 

Body may slumber ; 

Body shall cumber 
Soul-tlight no more. 



Waft of soul's wing ! 

What li(>s above ? 

Sunshine and Lovi*, 
Skyblue and Spring ! 
Body hides — where ? 

Ferns of all feather, 

Mosses and heather, 
Yours be the care ! 



AT TfTE ''MJCRMAfD. 



"Ill 



AT THE "MERMAID." 



The fisrure that thou here seest 



Tut! 



Was it for gentle Shakspeare put ? 

B. JoNSON. {Adapted.) 



I — " Next Poet? " No, ray hearties, 

I nor am nor fain would be ! 
Choose your chiefs and pick your 
parties, 

Not one soul revolt to nie ! 
I, forsooth, sow song-sedition ? 

I, a schism in verse provoke ? 
I, blown up by bard's ambition, 

Burst — your bubble-king? You 
joke. 



Come, be grave ! The sherris man- 
tling 
Still about each mouth, mayhap, 
Breeds you insight — just a scant- 
ling- 
Brings me truth out — just a scrap. 
Look and tell me ! Written, spoken, 
Here's my life-long work : and 
where 
— Where's your warrant or my token 
I'm the dead king's son and heir ? 



III. 
Here's my work : does work discover 

What was rest from work — my 
life? 
Did I live man's hater, lover ? 

Leave the world at peace, at strife ? 
Call earth ugliness or beauty ? 

See things there in large or small ? 
Use to pay its Lord my duty ? 

Use to own a lord at all ? 



IV. 

Blank of such a record, truly. 

Here's the work I hand, this scroll, 
Yours to take or leave ; as duly. 

Mine remains the unproffered soul. 
So much, no whit more, my debtors — 

How should one like me lay claim 
To that largess elders, betters 

Sell you cheap their souls for — 
fame? 



Which of you did T enable 
Once to sliji inside my breast 

There to catalogue and label 
What I like least, what love best, 



Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, 
Seek and shun, respect — deride ? 

Who has right to make a rout of 
Rarities he found inside ? 

VI. 

Rarities or, as he'd rather, 

Rubbish such as stocks his own : 
Need and greed (oh strange !) the 
Father 
Fashioned not for him alone ! 
Whence — the comfort set a-strutting, 
Whence— the outcry "Haste, be- 
hold ! 
Bard's breast open wide, past shut- 
ting, 
Shows what brass we took for 
gold ! " 



Friends, I doubt not he'd display you 

Brass — mj^self call oreichalch, — 
Furnish much amusement ; pray you 

Therefore, be content I balk 
Him and you, and bar my portal ! 

Here's my work outside ; opine 
What's inside me mean and mortal ! 

Take your pleasure, leave me mine ! 

VIII. 

Which is — not to buy your laurel 

As last king did, nothing loth. 
Tale adorned and pointed moral 

Gained him praise and pity both. 
Out rushed sighs and groans by 
dozens. 

Forth by scores oaths, curses flew : 
Proving you were cater-cousins. 

Kith and kindred, king and you ! 



Whereas do T ne'er so little 

(Thanks to sherris) leave aiar 
Bosom's gate — no jot nor tittle 

Grow we nearer than we are. 
Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, 

Body-ruined, spirit- wrecked, — 
Should I give my woes an airing, — 

Where's one plague that claims 
respect ? 



Have you found your life distasteful ? 

My life did and does smack sweet. 
Was your youth of i^leasure waste- 
ful ? 

Mine I saved and hold complete. 



278 



HOUSE. 



Do your joys with age diniinish ? 

When mine fail me, I"ll complain. 
Must in death your daylight tiuisii ? 

My sun sets to rise agaiu. 



"What, like you, he proved — your 
Pilgrim" — 
This our world a wilderness. 
Earth still gray and heaven still 
grim. 
Not a hand there his might press. 
Not a heart his own might throb to, 
Men all rogues and women — say, 
Dolls which boys' heads duck and bob 
to. 
Grown folk drop or throw awaj' ? 



My experience being other. 

How shoiild I contribute verse 
Worthy of your king and brother ? 

Balaam-like I bless, not curse. 
I find earth not graj' but rosy. 

Heaven not grim but fair of hue. 
Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. 

Do I stand and stare ? All's blue. 



Doubtless I am pushed and shoved 
by 

Rogues and fools enough : the more 
Good luck mine, I love, am loved by 

Some few honest to the core. 
Scan the near high, scout the far low ! 

'* But the low come close:" what 
then ? 
Simpletons ? My match is Marlowe ; 

Sciolists ? My mate is Ben, 



XIV. 

"Womankind — " the cat-like nature. 

False and fickle, vain and weak " — 
Scared}^ this sad nomenclature 

Suits my tongue, if I must speak. 
Does the sex invite, repulse so. 

Tempt, betray, by fits and starts? 
So becalm but to comulsi; so. 

Decking heads and breaking hearts ? 



"Well may you blaspheme at fortune ! 

T " threw Venus " (Ben, expound ! ) 
Never did I need importune 

Her, of all the Olympian round. 



Blessings on my benefactress ! 

Cursings suit — for aught I know — 
Those who twitched her ly the back 
tress, 
Tugged and thought to turn her — 
so ! 

XVI. 

Therefore, since no leg to stand on 

Thus I'm left with, — joy or grief 
Be the issue, — I abandon 

Hope or care you name me Chief ! 
Chief and king and Lord's anointed, 

I ? — who never once have wished 
Death before the day appointed : 

Lived and liked, not poohetl and 
pished ! 



" Ah, but so I shall not enter. 

Scroll in hand, the common heart — 
Stopped at surface : since at centre 

Song should reach WeU-sdnnerz, 
world-smart ! " 
" Enter in the heart ? " Its shelly 

Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft ! 
Such song " enters in the belly 

And is cast out in the draught." 



XVIII. 

Back then to our sherris-brewage ! 

" Kingship" quotha? I shall wait — 
Waive the present time : some new 
age . . . 
But let fools anticipate ! 
Meanwhile greet me — "friend, good 
fellow. 
Gentle Will," m^' merry men ! 
As for making Envy yellow 
With " Next Poet " — (Manners, 
Ben!) 



HOUSE. 



Shall I sonnet-sing you about mv- 
self ? 
Do I live in a house you would like 
to see ? 
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf ? 
" Unlock ray heart with a sonnet- 
key?" 



SHOP. 



279 



Invite the world, as my betters have 
done ? 
" Take notice : this building re- 
mains on view, 
Its suites of reception every one, 
Its private apartment and bedroom 
too : 



" For a ticket, apply to the Publish- 
er." 
No : thanking the public, I must 
decline, 
A peep through my window, if folks 
prefer ; 
But, please you, no foot over thresh- 
old of mine ! 



I have mixed with a crowd and heard 
free talk 
In a foreign land where an earth- 
quake chanced 
And a house stood gaping, naught to 
balk 
Man's eye wherever he gazed or 
glanced. 



The whole of the frontage shaven 
sheer, 
The.inside gaped : exposed to day. 
Right 'and wrong and common and 
queer, 
Bare, as the palm of your hand, it 
lay. 

VI. 

The owner ? Oh, he had been crushed, 
no doubt ! 
" Odd tables and chairs for a man 
of wealth ! 
What a parcel of musty old books 
about ! 
He smoked, — no wonder he lost 
his health ! 

VII. 

"I doubt if he bathed before he 
dressed. 
A brazier? — the pagan, he burned 
perfumes ! 
You see it is proved, what the neigh- 
bors guessed : 
His wife and himself had separate 
rooms." 



viir. 
Friends, the goodman of the house 
at least 
Kept house to himself till an earth- 
quake came : 
'Tis the fall of its frontage permits 
you feast 
On the inside arrangement you 
praise or blame. 

IX. 

Outside should suffice for evidence : 
And whoso desires to penetrate 

Deeper, must dive by the spirit- 
sense — 
No optics like yours, at any rate ! 



" Hoity toity ! A street to explore, 
Your house the exception ! ' With 
this same key 
ShaTispeare nnlocked his heart,'' once 
more ! " 
Did Shakspeare ? If so, the less 
Shakspeare he ! 



SHOP. 



So, friend, your shop was all your 
house ! 
Its front, astonishing the street. 

Invited view from man and mouse 
To what diversity of treat 
Behind its glass — the single sheet ! 



What gimcracks, genuine Japanese : 

Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog ; 

Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, 

geese ; 

Some crush-nosed human-hearted 

dog : 
Queer names, too, such a catalogue ! 



I thought "And he who owns the 
wealth 
Which blocks the window's vasti- 
tude, 
— Ah, could I peep at him by stealth 
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude 
On house itself, what scenes were 
viewed ! 



280 



SHOP 



" If \vi(le aiul showy tlius the shop, 
AV'hat must the liabiration prove ? 

The true lioiise with no name a-top — 
The mansion, distant one remove. 
Once aet him off his tratiic-groove ! 



*' Pictures he likes, or books perhaps ; 
And as for buying most and best, 

Commend me to these city chaps ! 
Or else he's social, takes his rest 
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. 



'* Some suburb-palace, parked about 
And gated grandly, built last year : 

The four-mile walk to keep off gout ; 
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer : 
But then he takes the rail, that's 
clear. 



" Or, stop ! I wager, taste selects 
Some out o' the way, some all- 
nnknown 
Retreat : the neighborhood sus]->ects 
Little that he who rambles lone 
Makes Rothschild tremble on his 
throne ! " 

vin. 

Nowise ! Nor Mayfair residence 
Fit to receive and entertain, — 

Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence 
From noise and crowd, from dust 

and drain, — 
Nor country-box was soul's domain ! 

IX. 

Nowise ! At back of all that spread 

Of merchandise, woe's me, I find 
A hole 1' the wall where, heels by 
liead, 
The owner couched, liis ware be- 
hind, 
— In cupboard suited to his mind. 



For, why ? He saw no use of life 
But, while he drove a roaring trade. 

To chuckle " CustouKn-s nrv. rif(^ ! " 
To chafe " So much hard cash out- 
laid 
Yet zero in my profits made I 



"This novelty costs pains, but — 
takes ? 
Cumbers my counter ! Stock no 
more ! 
This article, no such great shakes. 
Fizzes like wild tire ? Underscore 
The cheap thing — thousands to the 
fore ! " 

XII. 

'Twas lodging best to live most nigh 
(Cramj). cottinlike as crib might be) 

Receipt of Custom ; ear and eye 
Wanted no outworld : "Hear and 

see 
The bustle in the shop ! " quoth he. 



My fancy of a merchant-prince 
Was different. Through his wares 
we groped 
Our darkling way to'— not to mince 
The matter — no black den where 

moped 
The master if we interloped ! 



XIV. 

Shop was shop only : household- 
stuff ? 
What did he want with comforts 
there ? 
" Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and 
rough. 
So goods on sale show rich and rare ! 
' JSell ami send honie,' be shop's 
affair ! " 

XV. 

What might he deal in ? Gems, sup- 
pose ! 
Since somehow business must be 
done 
At cost of trouble, — see, he throws 
You choice of jewels, ever\^ one 
Good, better, best, star, moon, and 



Which lies within your power of 
purse ? 
This ruby that would tip aright 

Solomon's sce]itri' ? Oh, your nurse 
Wants simply coral, the delieht 
Of teething baby, — stuff to bite ! 



A TALE. 



281 



Howe'er your choice fell, straight yon 

took 

Your lairchase, prompt your money 

rang 

On counter, — scarce the man forsook 

His study of the "Times," just 

swang 
Till- ward his hand that stopped the 
clang, — 

xnn. 
Then off made buyer with a prize, 
Then seller to his "Times" re- 
turned, 
And so did day wear, wear, till eyes 
Brightened apace, for rest was 

earned : 
He locked door long ere candle 
burned. 

XIX. 

And whither -went he? Ask him- 
self. 
Not me ! To change of scene, I 
think. 
Once sold the ware and pursed the 
pelf, 
Chatter was scarce his meat and 

drink, 
Nor all his music — money-chink. 



Because a man has shop to mind 
111 time and place, since Hesh must 
live, 
Needs spirit lack all life behind. 
All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, 
All loves except what trade can 
give ? 



I want to know a butcher paints, 
A baker rhymes for his pursuit. 

Candlestick-maker much acquaints 
His soul with song, or, haply mute, 
Blows out his brains upon the flute ! 

XXII. 

But — shop each day and all day long ! 
Friend, your good angel slept, your 
star"^ 
Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong ! 
From where these sorts of treas- 
ures are, 
There should our hearts be — Christ, 
how far ! 



A TALE. 



^HAT a pretty tale you told me 

Once upon a time 
— Said you found it somewhere (scold 
me !) 
Was it prose or was it rhyme, 
Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said. 
While your shoulder j^ropped my 
head. 



Anyhow there's no forgetting 

This much if no more. 
That a poet (pray, no petting !) 

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore. 
Went where suchlike used to go, 
Singing for a prize, you know. 



Well, he had to sing, nor merely 
Sing but play the lyre ; 

Playing was important clearly 
Quite as singing : I desire, 

Sir, you keep the fact in mind 

For a purpose that's behind. 



There stood he, while deep attention 

Held the judges round, 
— Judges able, I should mention. 

To detect the slightest sound 
Sung or played amiss : such ears 
Had old judges, it appears ! 



V. 

None the less he sang out boldly, 

Played in time and tune, 
Till the judges, weighing coldly 

Each note's worth, seemed, late or 
soon, 
Sure to smile " In vain one tries 
Picking faults out : take the prize ! " 



When, a mischief ! Were they seven 

Strings the lyre possessed ? 
Oh. and afterwards eleven. 
Thank you ! Well, sir, — who had 
guessed 
Such ill luck in store ? — it happed 
One of those same seven strings 
snapped. 



282 



A TALE. 



VII. 

All was lost, then ! No ! a cricket 
(What " cicada " ? Pooh !) 

— Some mad thiiij? that left its thicket 
For mere love of music — flew 

With its little heart on fire, 

Lighted ou the crip]3led lyre. 

viir. 
So that when (Ah joy !) our singer 

For his truant string 
Feels with disconcerted finger, 

What does cricket else but fling 
Fier\^ heart forth, sound the note 
Wanted by the throbbing throat V 

IX. 

Ay and, ever to the ending, 

Cricket chirps at need, 
Executes the hand's intending, 

Promptly, perfectly, — indeed 
Saves tlie singer from defeat 
With her chirrup low and sweet. 



Till, at ending, all the judges 

Cry with one assent 
** Take the prize — a j^rize who grudges 

Such a voice and instrument ? 
Why, we took your lyre for harp, 
So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 



Did the conqueror spurn the creature, 

Once its service done ? 
That's no such uncommon feature 

In the case when Music's son 
Finds his Lotte's power too speut 
For aiding soul-development. 



No ! This other, on returning 
Homeward, prize in hand. 

Satisfied his bosom's yearning : 
(Sir, I hope you understand !) 

— Said " Some record there must be 

Of this cricket's help to me ! " 

XIII. 

So. he made himself a statue : 
Marble stood, life-size ; 



On the lyre, he pointed at you. 

Perched his partner in the prize ; 
Never more apart you found 
Her, he throned, from him, she 
crowned. 



That's the tale : its application ? 

Somebody I know 
Hopes one day for reputation 

Through his poetry that's — Oh, 
All so learned and so wise, 
And deserving of a prize I 



If he gains one, will some ticket, 

When his statue's built. 
Tell the gazer " 'Twas a cricket 

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 
Sweet and low, when strength 

usurped 
Softness' place 1' the scale, she 
chirped ? 

XVI. 

" For as victory was nighest, 
While I sang and played, — 

With my lyre at lowest, highest. 
Right alike, — one string that made 

' Lov3 ' sound soft was snapt iu twain. 

Never to be heard again, — 



x^^^. 
" Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 

Perchea upon rhe place 
Vacant left, and duly uttered 

' Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the 
bass 
Asked the treble to atone 
For its somewhat sombre drone." 



XV TIT. 

But you don't know music ! Where- 
fore 

Keep on casting pearls 
To a— p<H,'t V All I care for 

Is — to tell him tliat a girl's 
" Love " comes aptly in when gruff 
Grows his singing. (There, enough 1) 



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